The next Tuesday evening, Hermione brings Ron a pie.
Pleiades hasn't visited her flat yet, and she hasn't received any Floo-calls. But she's only a little anxious. She knows Draco needs time, and she wants to give him that. After what happened Sunday night – after what he heard – he deserves that much from her, at least.
So Hermione spends all Monday night trying not to think about Draco while she makes the kind of food only Ronald Weasley would like. It's a pie filled with an amalgam of savory things, including ground beef, pork belly, pepperoni, Italian sausage, and ham. The dish contains enough nitrates to clog the arteries of an Olympic runner, and Hermione instinctively knows Ron will love it.
She also knows it should be the other way around: Ron should come to her door, bearing a tin of biscuits and his own contrition. But he won't, for a number of reasons. Insecurity being the primary one. It seems to Hermione that Ron has battled insecurity every minute of every day since they were eleven. Maybe even since his birth.
It also seems that Ron is just as broken as she and Draco. Far more than he ever let on when they were dating. In fact, Ron's reticence about the War apparently hides a wealth of new, emotional problems that Hermione is just now starting to understand.
Certain things about Ron, however, haven't changed: he's still loyal and tactless; loving and short-sighted; kind and foolish. He is not the man she wants to be with, and he certainly bollocksed things up quite nicely the other night. But despite everything, she loves Ron too much for Sunday to be the end of their friendship. So, just like she's done many times in their past, she'll drag him kicking and screaming to this resolution, as well.
When he opens the door to his flat Tuesday night, Ron wears deep smudges of regret beneath his eyes, almost dark enough to match the blackberry stain on his t-shirt. It's then that Hermione knows this conversation will be their hardest yet. Harder than the one they had in the Forest of Dean. Harder, even, than last May.
"'Mione," he croaks. His voice sounds rough with guilt and a lack of sleep. "What are you—?"
"Do you lot actually own an oven?" she asks, breezing past him into the flat.
She wants very much to keep things neutral and light, until they're ready for the hard stuff. But she can't help skidding to a stop inside the entrance of Ron's flat.
The place is, to put it kindly, a disaster. Cabinets lay open and dishes stack so high throughout the kitchen, she can't see the countertops. Most of the cheap, plastic chairs that dot the flat are either broken or askew. Takeaway containers and empty beer bottles litter every available surface, except for one corner of the couch where a tall pile of laundry – dirty? clean? both? – leans like a drunken houseguest who overstayed its welcome.
"What the hell happened in here?" she asks.
Ron comes up beside her and shrugs. "I was really shitty to one of my best friends, and I took it out on my flat afterward."
"You did all of this in forty-eight hours?"
"Technically, it's only been about forty-five hours since I got home from Paris."
Hermione shudders. "Imagine what you could have done with the final three. I think there are still a few clean spots left on the ceiling – want to have a go at them?"
He shakes his head self-consciously and slips his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. Without asking permission to do so, Hermione raises her wand and begins to tidy up the debris – Vanishing the rubbish and beer bottles, levitating the laundry down the hallway toward Ron's bedroom. After about ten minutes of wand work, there's a clear path to the kitchen and some space for them on the sofa.
"You're so good at stuff like that," Ron says softly from his place at her elbow.
She has to force herself not to snort. Draco rarely assumes that she'll do all the household charms by herself. Unlike Ron, who hasn't changed this attitude once in nine years. But Draco doesn't…Draco hasn't….
Draco hasn't owled her yet.
Hermione sighs irritably.
"You are quite capable of cleaning up after yourself, Ron." To demonstrate, she hands him the pie tin. "Here. Take this to the kitchen, cast a warming charm on it, and cut us each a slice."
He takes the tin, frowning down at the towel that covers it. "You sure you wouldn't feel more comfortable, if you were the one to—?"
"Nope," she says, with a pleasant smile. "I wouldn't. But I will make myself comfortable on your couch while you serve us the dinner I prepared. Deal?"
Ron nods and quickly moves to the kitchen. That's one of the beautiful things about him: once he starts digging himself into a metaphoric hole, he usually stops after being told to.
Hermione slips off her trainers and hoodie and sets them upon one of the few, intact plastic chairs. By the time Ron returns with two mismatched plates of pie, she's found a spot on the couch that needs only a little Scourgify. He hands her a plate and plastic fork and then takes his place on the sofa.
He doesn't wait for her before tucking into his own pie with giant, shovel-sized bites. Hermione has barely begun, when Ron finishes his slice and goes back for more.
"How many types of meat are in this thing?" he asks as he reemerges from the kitchen, carrying a second slice that dwarfs his first.
"Five. Six, if you count the chicken stock I used to steam the vegetables."
Ron flops unceremoniously onto the couch and sniffs his plate. "There are vegetables in here?"
"Some. But try not to hold that fact against the pie itself."
"I won't," he says around a mouthful. "What do you call this thing, anyway?"
"Well, after some careful deliberation, I decided to call it Ron's-a-Jerk-and-Needs-a-Swift-Kick-in-the-Arse Surprise."
Ron swallows his bite and winces. "Are we really going to do this tonight, then?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you'd like to remain friends."
"Oh," he says.
"Yes. Oh."
A long pause, and then: "I do, you know. Want to stay friends."
"Me, too," she sighs. "But you know what you have to do to make that happen, right?"
Ron groans and tilts his head back against the sofa. "I know. I have to apologize for insulting you about…him."
"Yes, you do. I'd also say you need to apologize to Draco, too, but—"
"But you know that will happen on the twenty-first of Never?"
"Pretty much." Hermione pats his arm sympathetically. "I know all of this hard for you to accept, Ron, and I do understand. Of course, I don't plan to do anything to make it easier on you. But I still understand."
He blinks at her. "Are you really, honest-to-Merlin dating that wanker?"
"Ron," she growls in warning.
"Sorry. Are you really dating Malfoy?"
"Sort of. Maybe. I mean, we've been hanging out a lot for the past few months. But Sunday was our first official date."
Ron grins. "And I ruined it."
"You know, Ronald, if we were playing the Hot-or-Cold game right now, you would be cold. As in, frigid."
"The same temperature as Malfoy's blood, then?"
Hermione makes another warning sound in the back of her throat.
"Okay, okay!" Ron holds up his palms in surrender. "I'm just having a hard time processing how you could follow me up with him."
"That's a fair question, I suppose. The two of you really are diametric opposites."
"Die-amma what?"
She smiles, despite herself. "You and Harry really don't read, do you? Diametric. Complete and total opposites. In other words, you and Draco couldn't be any more different if you tried."
"So what's the appeal, then? Please tell me it's not just a…physical thing."
"You sound just like Ginny, you know."
Ron starts to gag, and Hermione laughs. From genuine amusement, sure, but also from relief so strong, her two-day-old headache begins to fade.
"No," she says, after she's collected herself. "It's not just physical for me. I mean, I am attracted to him in that way, very much—"
He pretends to vomit on the rug and she snickers.
"Honestly, Ron, upchuck could only do this floor a favor. And no, I don't like Draco just because of his looks. I like his brain, and his sense of humor, and his heart—"
"That shriveled-up prune in his chest? That thing that beats only for the Dark Arts and Pansy Parkinson?"
Hermione sighs again. "He's not the baddie from some fairy story, Ron."
"Could've fooled me, with all the black suits and hair gel."
"Those bad things you keep pointing out about him? Those are past tense. Well…except for the suits, I guess."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, Draco knows he was wrong, and he's actually apologized for it. More than once, and in more than one way."
"Oh, la-ti-da."
"You act like that's not a big deal, Ron, but it is. For someone like him, brought up the way he was, to admit that it was all shite? To admit he screwed up, and then try to change himself? I'm not saying it's better than if you or I did it, but it's at least as important. Growing up, you and I had decent parents with a decent grasp on reality. The Malfoys arrived very late to that game, and I'm impressed they're trying to play it at all."
"What are you telling me?" Ron asks scornfully. "That the Malfoy family is the perfect little picture of goodness and light, now?"
"Of course not. Narcissa is still as cunning as ever, Lucius drawls everything he says, and Draco goes back and forth between arrogance and self-loathing. But they're trying. Merlin, are they trying. And I sort of love them for it. Love him for it."
Ron goes so still, he actually reminds her of Draco. Just for a moment. Just before his eyebrows draw into such a deep scowl, he looks like he has an angry red gash above his eyes.
"Love? You love him?"
"I didn't say that. But I do want to date him. And sometimes, love follows suit. So…it's possible. Maybe. Someday."
That isn't exactly the truth, and Hermione knows it. She's far closer to that word than she'll admit aloud. But Ron still emits a low, despairing noise, and she knows he's reached his limit.
"Enough," she says quietly. "I've said enough for you to know that I'm serious, and that you'll have to at least tolerate this…thing I have going with Draco. If you and I are to stay friends. Yeah?"
Ron ponders her quasi-ultimatum long enough to make her heart skip. But finally, he says, "Yeah. Yeah, Hermione. I can live with that. And I am sorry, you know. About the other night."
She's about to sigh in relief when he suddenly narrows his eyes and points a finger at her.
"But don't think for one minute that I'm going to be 'cool' with it, 'Mione. Tolerant, sure. Cool, no. And under no circumstances – and I mean no circumstances – will you snog him in front of me. Deal?"
Hermione wants to laugh. Wants to hug him in gratitude, even though she knows that he's giving her the bare minimum of what she would give to him, if their situations were reversed. Instead, she pretends to consider his offer and then grabs his pointed finger to shake it in agreement.
"Deal."
He nods like that's the end of it. But then he scrutinizes her face as though he'll find the meaning of life written there.
"What?" she asks testily.
"I'm just wondering if you were this pretty when we dated, or if—"
"Or if what, Ron?" she snaps, confused and wounded in a way she doesn't understand. "You think Draco cast some kind of beauty charm on me, or something?"
Ron makes a pained frown. "Of course I don't. I was just wondering if that tosser is the one who brings out this…this glow in you."
"I'm glowing?"
"Yeah. In a sense. I've never seen you prettier than how you looked in Paris, except for tonight. You're even prettier tonight. And I'm wondering how he factors into that."
Hermione considers what Ron's said. Considers what Draco means to her, why they might just fit together, and how she should put it so that Ron Weasley doesn't lose his mind.
"Draco just…gets it, Ron. He gets what I'm trying to do with the PTSD Pastry Tour. He gets what makes me frustrated, or happy. Gets what makes me laugh. Draco just gets me."
At this revelation, Ron falls silent. He doesn't scream or protest or argue about how it couldn't be Draco Malfoy who might best understand the woman at his side. And in Ron's silence, Hermione hears a peace offering. A promise to stay her friend, no matter whom she dates.
After a while, they both settle back into the sofa: Hermione, to finish her first slice of pie; Ron, to finish his second. She enjoys the comfortable silence and the released tension in her shoulders. This is the way it should be with Ron. This is how she envisioned their friendship after they broke up last May.
Sure, the War will always be a strained, once-every-blue-moon topic between them, and Ron certainly won't be inviting Draco over for poker night with the Gryffindors. But tolerance? Tolerance is good.
Just ask Draco Malfoy.