Author's Chapter Notes:
The first of our flashback moments. Take care with the date stamps from now on, please! :-)
11th January, 7:30 p.m.
“Are you really going to do this?” Harry inquired in a serious tone. He was sitting across the kitchen table from his brother-in-law and best friend, and he was very, very worried about him. Ron had been fretting about this for weeks. Ever since he’d decided to propose to Lavender, in fact.
Harry could sort of empathise with his problem. He and Ginny had had the same dilemma when they had gotten engaged. They had sent Hermione an owl, but it had never been replied to. They had thought about sending her another owl, or Flooing her, but her message had been fairly clear. Hermione had wanted nothing to do with them since the end of the War. Apparently, however, Ron had taken Harry and Ginny's experience to heart. Now that he had his own news to announce, he wanted to not make the same mistakes they had made. He was insisting on going to visit her, and he had used his Ministry contacts to track down her address. She lived in some Muggle apartment building on the outskirts of London, and that fact didn’t surprise Harry one bit. He knew that she was still in contact with Severus and Draco – in fact, she was working with them – but she would naturally want to surround herself with the Muggle world and things that reminded her of childhood and happier times. Times before the War and all that had happened to her.
Ron was giving him a look. He should clearly be taking something from that. It looked like a don’t-start-this-again look, but it could equally be a please-support-me-I’m-terrified look. Harry was no good at interpreting such things, even after all these years with Ginny.
“You knew I was going to say that,” Harry ventured.
“Yeah, I did. But you know that I have to do this.”
“I’ve got to confess, I don’t really know why,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair anxiously.
“Harry,” Ron replied pleadingly. Oh, so <i>that</i> was his please-support-me-I’m-terrified look. Harry leaned across the table and clapped a hand onto his friend’s tricep.
“Ron, really, I think that you’re just leaving yourself open to being hurt. Hermione has changed. It’s painful for all of us, but we have to try to understand. None of us can comprehend what she went through in Azkaban.” Ron flinched, but Harry continued valiantly, “We have to try and accept that we hurt her more than we can imagine, and she doesn’t have to forgive us. Frankly, I don’t blame her for wanting nothing to do with us.”
“Harry, I loved her,” Ron blurted out painfully. Merlin, it hurt to make that confession, although he knew it wasn’t news to his best friend. He knew that Harry would fill in the ‘I still do’ part for himself. He couldn’t blame Harry for trying to talk him out of this, and he knew that he was going to get hurt tonight, but it <i>had</i> to be done. He owed Hermione this. He owed her a lot more, too, but this seemed to be all he was capable of doing for her.
“I know,” Harry replied in a low voice. “I loved her too, and I <i>know</i> I didn’t love her in the same way, but what I’m trying to say is that I know how much it hurts me, and I know that it must hurt you a million times more. But the broken heart can go on, even when broken. You love Lavender, don’t you? You’re going to marry her and start a family with her. Hermione is beyond our reach now, Ron.”
“No, she’s not!” Ron burst out. “She lives on the other side of London. She’s well within our reach. She must be working towards forgiving us by now,” he insisted. “We need to reach out to her. Show her we care. Show her we still need her and still want her to be part of our lives. You and Ginny didn’t go far enough. But you don’t care about her the way I do.”
“Ron!” Ginny reproved him angrily. She had appeared in the doorway of the kitchen and was glaring at the two men, hands on her hips. She had had a hard day with baby Xander and had only just gotten him to sleep.
“Oh, come on, Ginny. I <i>loved</i> her.”
Harry wondered idly if his wife would supply the present tense of that statement there, or if it would completely pass her by. Ginny was still glaring at him, and he realised that he had begun to smile and schooled his features into an appropriate look of concern.
“Ronald Weasley, you know what I think about this stupid plan of yours. You’re just opening yourself up to heartache that you <i>and</i> Lavender don’t deserve. Have you thought about how all this makes her feel? Have you?” Ginny demanded as she settled into the chair next to her husband.
“Ginny, this isn’t about Lavender. This is about me and Hermione. Perhaps about all four of us too. This is just <i>wrong</i>, leaving her out in the cold all this time.”
“I’m not going to dissuade you, am I?” his sister asked, sounding tired and resigned.
“No,” Ron replied defiantly. Harry watched the two siblings with keen interest. He was definitely on Ginny’s side here. He thought this was a foolhardy plan, and he really didn’t want to see Ron hurt again. He had been devastated after the War, particularly after Hermione’s trial and her wholesale rejection of them. He had just been rebuilding his life with Lavender. At the same time, however, he admired his friend’s passion and loyalty. He had often wondered if he would behave in the same way had the situation been reversed and Ginny had been Imperiused and imprisoned. The thought was so terrible he often drew up short and had to hunt out his wife in order to expel it from his mind.
“Very well,” Ginny was telling her brother as Harry tuned back in to the conversation. “If you must, you must.” She shrugged her shoulders and rose from her chair. “Harry, darling, I have to go to bed. I’m just exhausted.”
“Okay, darling,” he replied warmly, reaching for her hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. “I’ll take care of Xander if he wakes. You rest.” He watched her leave, admiring the sway of her curvy body and remembering why he loved her so much. Watching Ron in heartache always made him appreciate his own luck more. Once she had left, however, he turned his attention back to his friend. “Ron, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“No, it’s fine. This is something I have to do for myself. Besides, you just promised Ginny you’d be here to take care of Xander.” Harry nodded in response to his friend’s logic but felt a twinge of unease. He didn’t want to leave his friend to do this alone.
“She’ll understand if you need me,” Harry ventured.
“No! Look, I have to go,” Ron asserted, rising from his chair. “This has gone on long enough. The notice in the <i>Prophet</i> goes out tomorrow. This needs to be done tonight.” Without waiting for a response, he strode towards the door. “I’m going to Apparate there. I don’t know how long I’ll be. If Lavender Floos, tell her where I’ve gone and that I’ll come see her when I’m done, okay?”
“Sure thing, mate. Good luck, yeah? Give Hermione my love, if you can?” Harry requested in a strained voice. Ron left, letting a slight incline of his head acknowledge Harry’s request. Harry heard the front door of the house close a second later, and he slumped into his chair, feeling anxious and tense. Merlin, he was always surprised how much her departure still hurt him. ‘Imagine how Ron feels,’ a little voice in his head reminded him, and he grimaced slightly in response. Yes, Ron must be feeling infinitely worse. Harry only hoped that marrying Lavender would solve things for his friend. The War had been finished years ago, and now they all deserved some peace.
***
11th January, 8:15 p.m.
Ronald Weasley Apparated into a dark, dingy alley somewhere in the north of London. This was the closest Apparation point in Muggle London, and it was still fifteen minutes from Hermione’s home. Hoping that he really did know the directions by heart, he set off down the alley towards the lit street.
***
11th January, 8:33 p.m.
Ah, there it was. He’d found it at last, thank Merlin. Ron made his way towards the front door of the apartment block whilst peering up at the brightly lit windows that were sprinkled across it. Were they all Muggles? How many other wizards and witches were living in buildings just like this, all across London, hiding from the Wizarding world? The thought was painfully followed by the realisation that it would have been the War that drove them here. Whenever he thought of the word ‘war’, it was always capitalised and accompanied by a painful constricting in his chest and bile rising in his throat.
Staring up at the building, he wondered now if he was making the right choice. Perhaps Hermione really did want nothing more to do with them. Maybe it was better for her if they left her alone. Was that what she really wanted? Ron could scarcely believe it, but it was possible. He had felt so betrayed on the battle field that day, but at her trial he had realised that it had been them betraying her all the way along. Was he betraying her now by hunting her out and breaking down the barrier she had erected between them? Still, how could he get married and <i>not</i> tell her? He had never imagined a time when Hermione wasn’t in his life. When she hadn’t been at Harry and Ginny’s wedding, her absence had cut through him like a knife and dulled the happiness of the day for him. He didn’t want her absence to do the same thing to him on his wedding day. Neither he nor Lavender deserved that.
Steeling himself, he closed the gap between himself and the door, only to find his way barred. The door was locked. Some old-fashioned switches were arranged at its side, and one of them had ‘Granger’ written next to it. The door must want him to declare his business before it would allow him to enter. He felt no wards protecting it, however, and he really didn’t want to give Hermione the chance of keeping him out by declaring his intentions to anyone or any thing. Determinedly, and with a glance around him to check there were no Muggles in sight, he extracted his wand and flicked it whilst uttering a hushed, “<i>Alohomora</i>.” The door clicked and swung open a little way, and he pushed his way inside.
Now, flat three-c. Where was that? Ron looked around him and noted several doors, each with small labels next to them. “One-a, one-b,” he read aloud. “Oh, I see how it works,” he continued, barely noticing that he was continuing to talk to himself. Without further ado, he hurried up the stairs to the next floor. Yes, here the flats were all two-something. He made his way around and ascended the second flight of stairs. Three-a, three-b, three-c. There it was. Standing in front of it, Ron found himself holding his breath. He had found her! Only a thin piece of wood separated him from the woman he had loved, the woman he had betrayed, the woman whose forgiveness he was seeking.
Taking a deep breath, Ron reached out and rapped sharply on the door. The loud noise echoed down the hallway and startled him, making him step back a little.
“I’m coming.” Ron’s heart soared as Hermione’s voice floated through the door to him. Why had they never done this before? It was so easy, so right.
The door flew open, and in the instant when Hermione came into view, Ron knew just how wrong that thought was.
“What are you doing here?” she shrieked, staring at him with open hostility. She was wearing a mint-green, waffle-textured t-shirt and shorts, her hair tied back loosely, with only a few tendrils falling to frame her face.
“Hermione, I came to see you, I have to talk to you …” The words sprang out of him all in a rush, but they trailed off as he saw her step back and the door begin to close between them. Without thinking, Ron hurled himself at the closing door and barrelled through it, almost knocking Hermione off her feet in the process. As he staggered to a halt, he looked around to get his bearings. A small kitchen stood in one corner of the room, dividing itself off from the lounge with its long counter, which jutted out more than halfway across the room. The rest of the small room was taken up by a sofa with an end table standing on either side, several bookcases, and as he turned to face Hermione, he noted a desk cluttered with potions equipment. Two doors led off from the room; one presumably led to her bedroom, the other into the corridor he had just walked down. It was this latter door which Hermione now closed with a vicious slam.
Fixing him with an angry stare, she began to yell, “What is the <i>matter</i> with you, Weasley? What are you doing here? You’re not welcome here. This is trespassing. I’ll call the Muggle police and the Ministry of Magic if you don’t get out this instant!”
“Hermione,” Ron began pleadingly, moving towards her with arms outstretched. “I needed to see you, I needed to talk to you, I’ve missed you so much …”
“Oh, save your bullshit, Weasley. You and the Potters are dead to me now. After what you did to me, how could it be any other way?”
“Hermione,” he said, feeling the strangeness of her name on his lips after so long – and when she was calling him Weasley, too – and persevering. “Hermione, after all that had happened, things were so confused. We didn’t know what was right, we didn’t know what to do. I will be eternally sorry for what happened to you, but you have to understand that we all still love you.”
“Love?” she spat out at him. “Love? Do you even know what love is, Ronald? I used to think you loved me once. More than Harry and Ginny did. Loved me as a woman. But no man would abandon the woman he loved to Azkaban. No man who truly loved would refuse to fight for her. You’re just as bad as the Death Eater scum who let their wives rot there, taking the rap for their husbands’ crimes! Worse, even, because you had nothing to lose by defending me!”
“Hermione, please,” Ron yelled out, his insides writhing at each harsh word she spoke. The bitter hatred was overwhelming. He had hurt her so much, how could he <i>ever</i> forgive himself? “I did love you,” he asserted, forcing his voice to not waver. The words ‘I still do’ stuck in his throat, however. He had no doubt that that admission would unleash a fresh torrent of vitriol from the woman he wanted to placate.
“If you even <i>liked</i> me you would have stayed away, where I wanted you!” she snapped back. She stood in front of the door, arms akimbo, furiously regretting leaving her wand in the bedroom, where she had been doing some light reading before bed. If she had it now, she knew a few choice hexes she would like to throw at this abhorrent intruder. Wasn’t he content with the painful scars he and the others had already left her with? Was he now going to inflict more pain upon her? What had she ever done to deserve this? She had loved this man, and she had been betrayed. The fury bubbled inside her, and she wondered what she would have to do to make him leave. Attack him? He was a lot bigger than her. He was almost certainly armed, too, and that made a big difference. The cool, analytical part of her brain began to look around the room for potential weapons or tools, and her gaze settled upon a vase of cheap, plastic flowers that she kept on the kitchen counter in a dismal attempt to brighten the flat. She edged towards the counter whilst closely regarding her enemy, who was clearly mentally preparing himself for another volley.
“I have something to tell you,” he began calmly, his eyes following her around the room. She seemed to have moved in order to casually lean against the kitchen counter, and he wondered what she was up to. This conversation, this atmosphere, was anything but casual. When she didn’t reply, he continued. “I’m … Well, there’s no easy way to say this, and I’m not sure how you took the news of Harry and Ginny, but, well, I have to tell you in person. I have to … I’m getting married, Hermione. To Lavender. We both want you to come. We all want you back in our lives, Hermione. Can’t you see that?”
There was a ringing in Hermione’s ears. Ron was obviously still speaking, but she couldn’t hear a word of it. One minute he was telling her how much he loved her, the next he was telling her that he was marrying Lavender Brown. What nerve, to come here and flaunt his happiness in her face, taunting her with the happy event she had once hoped to be an intimate part of! It was more than she could bear. Letting out an inarticulate shriek that seemed to encompass all of her furious emotions, she grasped for the vase and launched it at Ron, who ducked but couldn’t quite avoid the impact. It skimmed the side of his head, causing him to yelp and reach for his ear as Hermione launched herself at him next. Leaping up at him, hands on his shoulders, she pushed him roughly to the ground, the impact shuddering its way through Ron to jar her bones.
“Hermione!” Ron let out in a choked yell, reaching up and gripping her shoulders. With a strength she hadn’t known she possessed, she squeezed her knees into his ribs and twisted her body to grasp a cushion from the sofa. “Hermione, you’re hurting me!” Hermione silenced the increasingly loud yelps with the cushion, leaning forward to put as much weight behind it as possible. One hand was on either side of Ron’s head, and she could feel him twisting and turning it violently in an effort to escape the muffling, suffocating wall of padding and cotton that assaulted him. Hermione let out a feral growl and squeezed her thighs harder together, ignoring the pinching and clawing of his hands at her shoulders. The pain here grew less and less as his twisting grew less violent, and she allowed herself to relax the tension in her thighs, which were burning with lactic acid after the sudden burst of activity. As the twisting ended, and his hands fell from her shoulders, Hermione released her hold on the pillow and tossed it aside, before looking down at Ron’s face. It flopped to one side, his jaw slack, his eyes bulging, his tongue protruding. Merlin, what had she done?
Hermione leapt from atop the body and ran into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She threw herself onto the bed and exhaled sharply. Her first instinct was to run away, which she supposed she’d accomplished, but not quite in the way that she would have liked. Merlin, what was she going to do? She sat up and pulled her knees into her chest, hugging them tightly. She could feel her body shaking with anger and fear. How dare he come and invade her space and provoke her and… <i>make</i> her kill him?
Hermione let out a high, petulant squeal and flung herself back onto the bed again. The question continued to ring through her head: What should she do? She needed to get away from this. Go for a nice, leisurely walk, get her head sorted. Then she could come back and deal with this shit.
Leaping from the bed, she hurried over to her wardrobe and tugged on the first jacket and scarf that she saw. Reaching under the bed, she pulled out a pair of boots and tugged them onto her feet. Outside was cold, after all.
What if he wasn’t dead? A new question echoed through her head. What if, right now, as she was faffing around with clothes, he was lying on her floor dying? What if he was waiting beside the door, ready to attack her the second she came out? Hermione slumped down onto the bed, her head in her hands. What was she going to do? Either she’d actually killed him or she’d made a damn good attempt. How was she going to escape from that fact?
She needed to know the truth. Steeling herself, she leapt to her feet and flung open the door into the living room, slamming it closed again almost instantly. No, he was definitely still there. Which was good, in a perverse way. At least he wasn’t lurking around, preparing to kill her. But maybe he was just injured. Maybe she could heal it and it would be all right again. Well, as all right as it had been before tonight!
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door slowly this time, letting the body come into view. When the door was completely open, she stepped out into the living room, closing it behind her. There he was. That was Ron. Was he alive? He didn’t seem to be breathing. There was no motion in his chest, and he was in exactly the same position she’d left him in, as far as she could tell. So, she’d actually killed him? To her surprise and chagrin, she breathed a sigh of relief. As she recognised it for what it was, she felt the anger rise in her again. How dare he make her feel this way? How dare he come in here and ruin her life again? Because <i>he</i> was fucking dead, <i>she’d</i> have to go back to Azkaban. Hermione felt a jolting shudder run through her. No, she couldn’t go there again. She couldn’t let that happen. What could she do to save herself from this?
Panicked thoughts swarmed her brain, mingling with the anger and fear to become a terrifying, all-consuming buzz of white noise in her ears. She needed to get out of here. She needed to get away from it. She should just go outside, take a walk, calm down. She found herself pacing the room whilst battling her emotions. She couldn’t decide what to do. She was so angry, she wanted to lash out and hit him, but what good would that do? He was already dead. Now there was just an ‘it’. A body, cluttering up her floor, cluttering up her life, threatening her. It was then that she kicked the desk.