Lassitude part 2
Jump?
Disintegration:
Part 1, Part 2
Lassitude:
Part 1, Part 2
Resipiscence:
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, End
Lassitude (part 2)
There is hardly any light in the room as she opens her eyes. She is dimly aware of a candle in the corner of the room. Its glow should be soft, ethereal, like faint faerie lights enchanting a night encrusted garden, but instead is blinding in the dark expanse of the room. Hermione looks up at the ceiling, where it is not as bright, and she watches the shadows of various objects as they cast themselves on the walls. The shadows remind her of memories, imprinted and wavering, never stable and always changing. With every thought they shift and mold, transforming into an altered form of the original. She wonders if that is how Harry perceives his world.
Thoughts of Harry cause her to shudder. What power could possibly have manifested itself and caused her friend’s lunacy? A thought in the back of Hermione’s mind suggests that he could have brought his madness on himself, by being away from society or any possible guilt that might have followed him to wherever he went, but Hermione banishes it. Harry would never do that to himself, she rationalizes.
Prohibiting any further thoughts, Hermione focus on her surroundings. As her eyes begin to grow accustomed to the lighting she recognizes the velvet hangings on the canopy of the bed. Rich navy paint comprises the walls and silver accents glimmer in the candle light. Hermione shudders again.
Her chambers at Malfoy Manor are cold. She wishes there was a fire in the fire place.
Hermione crawls out of the bed, slipping out of the silk covers. She pads over to where she knows the fire place is, and lowers herself onto her knees. She wonders why her muscles ache. Her shoulders scream as she rolls them, her legs are cramped and sore. Her abdomen, too, is slightly painful, and she winces as her back refuses to bend to her will.
Belatedly, Hermione realizes that it’s useless for her to be on the floor; she does not have her wand with her to light a fire. She crawls painstakingly slowly toward the large armchair a couple meters away and uses it as a support, putting all her weight on top of it. Hermione’s legs wobble as she tries to stand and steady herself. She glances around the room, searching for her wand. Hermione is fully aware that she did not move herself to this room. She finds it perplexing that her wand would be seized from her.
There is a soft pop as Hermione pushes stray locks of hair back into their place.
“Is Miss alright?”
Hermione looks toward the house elf in surprise. “Toti?”
The elf nods.
“What are you doing at the Manor?”
“Master Draco was needing more help here, Miss. Toti said shes could take care of Master Potter.”
“You knew I’d be here, didn’t you?”
Toti’s head bobs, her ears flapping. “Toti hasn’t seen Miss at Malfoy Quarters for ages.”
“Toti, I’ve told you that it’s called a flat.”
Toti cocks her head. “But Quarters are not flat, Miss.”
Hermione sighs and rubs her forehead. “No they aren’t.”
Toti shuffles her feet. “Is Miss needing anything? Toti thoughts she heard someone call.”
“Tell me how I got into my chambers, Toti; I recall fainting in a room on the other side of the Manor.”
“Master Draco had Toti and other house elves bring Miss to her bed.”
“How was Draco?”
Toti bites her lip. Hermione urges her to speak, reminding her that they’re friends and that Draco trusts her. “Master was pale, Miss.”
Hermione hesitates before nodding, knowing that Toti will not betray anything else. She shudders; the feeling reminds her of snowball fights when she was at Hogwarts, and how the boys would stuff ice down the back of her uniform. She feels like the ice is sliding down her back, leaving a trail of newly melted snow in its wake.
“Toti, would you be kind enough to light a fire for me? I’m not sure where my wand is.”
Toti bounces a little and scurries toward the fireplace. Immediately a fire springs up, and Hermione watches Toti scamper back.
“Thank you, Miss.”
Hermione chuckles a little. “You’re too easily enthralled when I give you something to do, aren’t you?
“Miss never lets Toti do things for her.”
“Thank you, Toti.”
Hermione turns around to sit in her arm chair, and she lowers herself slowly, hoping to prevent any pain. She closes her eyes in weariness, only to open them again when a small hand tugs on her robes.
“Yes Toti?”
“Madame says Miss may have her wand back.”
Hermione looks at Toti in surprise as the house elf, dressed in the remains of a velvet curtain, steps up on her tip-toes to hand Hermione her wand. She takes the vine wood from the elf, nodding her thanks as she stares at the wand in wonder. Toti bows and leaves, taking care so as not to disturb Hermione.
The fire crackles, golden sparks dancing as they enchant the darkness before them. They send ribbons of light shooting across the room, vibrant and full of energy. Eventually spent, the sparks spiral downwards, twirling and curling in on themselves. Like ballet dancers, Hermione muses; they leap and glide and whirl with grace and speed, only to end in a slow, melancholy flow of fluid movements. She continues to watch the embers of the fire as she fingers her wand.
Who had had her wand? Hermione is the only woman left in the house, and the only ‘Madame’ that Hermione can think of is no longer allowed in the Manor. As soon as she left, Wilone was to never be able to enter again.
Unless, Hermione realizes, she has yet to leave.
Quite suddenly, Hermione hears the curtains to the windows being torn open. The sound of the rings running across the rail startles her, and she tenses in her chair. There is no downpour of light coming from the direction of the windows behind her, and Hermione curses. Without light, there are no shadows. Hermione grips her armchair in anticipation, her ears pricked for any sound of movement.
Clicking approaches, but becomes muffled as the footsteps travel from stone floor to carpet. It stops to the right of her chair, and Hermione can feel the person hovering there. She refuses to acknowledge the person’s presence, and waits for the person to speak first.
“Finest elf in all of England, I dare say. She was trained by the best.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Which is obviously not you, Wilone, seeing as Toti was brought from Denmark.”
Wilone does not comment. She moves in front of where Hermione is seated, her skirts rustling as she turns to face Hermione. Wilone glares down at her, holding her hands behind her. Hermione stares up at Wilone in silence.
“There is no wonder as to why my widower is so fond of you; you are far too obstinate to be a proper lady.”
“Why don’t you ever call him Draco?” Hermione spits out, forgetting her silence and ignoring Wilone’s comment.
Wilone laughs. It is not a pleasant sound, but like a knife, slicing at Hermione’s nerves. There is no mirth, no amusement. There is only contempt molded into a box, taking the place of Wilone’s voice in her throat.
“Of all things, I had expected you to ask me why I speak as if death had been brought down upon me.”
“That was my next question.”
Wilone’s dark eyes look malevolent in the firelight. They flicker and brighten into gold and amber, then are instantly wiped, blank and dark, only to blaze again. Her eyes are life and death within a moment.
“It is not my place to call him by name, and I only hold resentment for those lower than I who are disrespectful enough to do otherwise.”
“If I cut away all the flamboyant wording, you are simply saying that I’m worthless.”
“I wanted to be sure that the implication was clear.”
Hermione scoffs, rolling her eyes. “A word of advice; if you ever want to tell anyone what you want them to know, say it. Don’t gloss things over or make them more dazzling with your excessive words. Anyone would have nightmares if they even tried to catch your meaning.”
Wilone’s eyes narrow, her face growing sour and contorted in the firelight. Her lips pucker and she steps forward, towering over the seated Hermione.
“You’re not worth the slime and filth on a rat’s tail, Mudblood.”
Hermione’s eyes widen. She has not heard that derogatory term since the early days of her career at the research department. The only one who had called her by such a station - no, not a station, but a crude, degrading name - was Draco, on the days that Hermione had pestered him most.
“Tell me,” Hermione says, finding her voice quickly. It hardens as she narrows her eyes, “Are you simply a reincarnate of your husband’s past prejudice, or do you have an opinion at all?”
Wilone’s pursed lips stretch into a smirk as she takes a step back. Her robes flow after her.
“Did you pick up your snark from him?”
“Who? Ron? Harry? Trust me when I say that neither has much snark in them.”
“That is a given, seeing as your husband is never sober and Mr. Potter is dead.”
In a flash, Hermione’s on her feet, her wand tip at Wilone’s pale throat. She can feel her hair standing, energy crackling on the ends. Her body temperature is rising and she’s itching and it feels like she’s being chewed by giant ants. She can feel their incisors digging into her skin, and she tries her hardest to keep her voice low and dangerous.
“I am usually a very tolerant woman, Wilone. But ever since I met you at the reunion five years ago there has been something about you that I haven’t liked. I have had enough of you tonight, and I never want to have to see you again. Draco is no longer your husband, and you are no longer welcome in this house. Now leave, before I let him know that you’re here.”
Wilone’s smirk slowly slips from her face, and she pulls her hands from behind her back, caring a picture frame between her fingers. She looks down at it, and Hermione can see that it contains a small photo of Rene. The child is playing in a sepia garden, composed of amber, white and chocolate flowers. She laughs as she chases a small, white butterfly, her spring dress light and bouncing with every footstep. Her dark, blonde hair, not as fair as her father’s, dances in the wind as her hat is blown off her head. Rene stops to pick it up with her small hands and she looks up at Hermione. Her brown eyes are enhanced in the coloring of the photo, and she seems innocent as she smiles. Hermione wonders why Draco hates Rene.
“Sometimes,” Wilone says, her voice cold, barely above a whisper, “I wonder why he agreed to have a child. Not only does he not care for her, but his sexual orientation doesn’t even permit him to love me.”
“You don’t have to be heterosexual to love a member of the opposite sex.” Hermione says through gritted teeth.
Wilone doesn’t look up. Her head seems to sink further down, as if her mind is trapped within the frame of the picture. Maybe Wilone wishes to be caught in the world where only her daughter exists, where there is only the peace and joy of flowers and sunshine and ignorance. Hermione watches as wisps of brown hair fall from their place in Wilone’s pins and down into her face. They seem to slip and pool down in loose locks, hiding Wilone. Hermione watches in silent wonder, pondering what Wilone could possibly be thinking.
Hermione notices a small tremor in Wilone’s shoulders and the woman’s head falls farther down. Hermione is almost worried as Wilone does not move any further. It soon seems as if she’s become a statue, and the grief Hermione feels radiating from Wilone is presented in the folds of her clothes, in the way her hair drapes. It is present in the posture of the woman as her head hangs and her hands are clenched in silent pain. Hermione muses that Wilone is a masterpiece of pain.
After several long moments of no movement nor sound, Hermione shifts and her hand reaches to touch Wilone’s. She’s afraid to break the silence. But Hermione’s basic instinct screams in fear, terrified that Wilone might not even be alive. What if her sorrow had clamped down on her heart and stopped its beating? What if it had rendered her incapable of anything?
Hermione might not like Wilone, but she must show some sort of compassion.
But before there’s any contact, Wilone straightens, standing tall and regal. Hermione doesn’t know if Wilone has been crying, but her cheeks are tinged and blotched. Hermione feels something pull at her heart, something that feels like tweezers plucking at her heartstrings. Something that causes her to body sag from its weight; it tastes bitter and cold. It reminds her of dreary days where there are only gray clouds in the sky and the atmosphere is murky.
Sympathy.
“Where will you go?” Hermione hears herself say.
Wilone looks down at her, and as she speaks her voice, tight and unsteady, betrays the fear behind the mask of composure.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Hermione doesn’t know what to say, feeling her mind and voice empty of any comfort. Annoyance begins to play at the tips of her consciousness again as she watches Wilone turn on her heel, her skirts sweeping after her. It irritates her how such a woman can stir so many emotions in Hermione at once.
Hermione turns back around and lowers herself into her armchair again, suddenly realizing how tired she is. She closes her eyes and imagines hearing Wilone open the door. Hermione tries to wipe her conscience of any thought and emotion pertaining to Wilone, feeling like she cannot take any more. She needs to relax before she tries again to see Harry and Draco.
“Congratulations.”
Hermione starts, opening her eyes again to find Wilone staring down at her. She almost thinks that she’s staring at her abdomen.
“I beg you pardon?”
A ghost of a smile forms on Wilone’s face.
“If I were still my husband’s wife, Rene might have had a playmate. That is, of course, totally dependent on whether or not he would have allowed the two to be in each other’s company.”
Hermione watches in shock as Wilone leaves. She had tried to forget Wilone and everything that she was feeling, but a flurry of emotions is taking over Hermione’s efforts. Excitement, joy, anxiety, confusion; all painted on a canvas that was herself. Pastels and paints of colors and scents splattered on, all evoking something different, stirring her. She feels light and heavy, and her body doesn’t know if gravity pulls her up or down, and everything is a mixture of cool and warmth, all being spun around by some invisible finger, playing with her being.
Wilone’s statement seems valid - how else can Hermione’s fatigue, nausea and dizzy spells be explained? She has experienced this once before, and she owes it to her multiple distractions that she has not realized it until now.
Dread seeps in as Hermione sits back in her seat. It’s a sinking feeling that’s black and infectious, and it crawls throughout her body. She does not know if she’s happy with the truth, and Hermione bites down nervously on her lip. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many factors that might not allow her the happiness that should come with such news. But she deserves this happiness.
But how will her husband feel if he is told the truth?
*
Rain was never a good sign.
Rain reflects the mood of a person or the consequences one must face or even the outcome of a situation or problem. At least, that is what Ron believes.
His footsteps become heavy as he treks through the mud on the path. He is lucky he chose a pub near the Manor tonight, because he has had to walk the entire night to get here. If the Manor had been any farther, Ron would have had to wait until he was sober to find Harry and Hermione. By then he may have convinced himself to not go to the Manor at all.
The rain continues to plummet down, beating against Ron’s neck. He’s lucky that the rain is cold, as it seems to clear his sight and his mind. His boots crunch on the gravel as he nears the front veranda of Malfoy Manor. The crunching grows louder and faster, and when Ron stops he realizes that he isn’t the one making the noise. He looks up into the dark enveloped night only to see another dark figure move toward him, away from the lights of the Manor. It doubles in size as it approaches and Ron steps out of the way when he realizes that it is a carriage. The horses pulling the carriage neigh and snort as they pass Ron, hazy condensation shooting out their nostrils and rising into the night sky, and he watches them as they trot past.
A blonde head pokes out of the window and smiles. She waves clumsily before she’s pulled back in. Ron watches tentatively as he hears a voice mutter, “Stay inside the carriage, Rene.”
He wonders why Rene and Wilone are leaving the Manor this late a night.
Ron shakes his head as he wipes the mud off his boots against the pavement. He thinks he recalls Hermione mentioning something about Wilone leaving, but that had been hours ago. In fact, that had been yesterday evening, seeing as how the sun will be up any minute now.
He trudges up to the entrance of the Manor, and a light springs up at his presence. Cautiously, Ron opens his mouth to speak.
“Ron Weasley here to see Harry Potter. Please.” He adds as an after thought.
The Manor is silent before him, and the extinguishing of the veranda light causes Ron to become nervous. There is no answer to his call as he speaks the words again. Ron does not want to turn around. He needs to see Harry and try and fix things between them, even if Harry might not understand him. He needs to see Hermione. Ron needs to apologize to her and tell her…
Wait.
“Ron Weasley here to see Hermione Granger,” Ron says in a rush. For the first time, he hopes that Hermione has actually chosen to stay at the Manor instead of return home. He holds his breath, only to exhale when the front door creaks open. He’s greeted by a small house elf, draped in the remains of a velvet curtain.
“Toti wishes Ron Weasley a good evening. Miss is in the east wing in her chambers, Sir.”
Ron nods and steps over the threshold. He’s thankful that he’s more sober now than before, as the lights in the foyer might have blinded him. “Thank you, Toti.”
With a small bow, Toti closes the Manor door. Ron turns his gaze toward the grand staircase. After magicking away the rest of the mud on his boots, Ron begins to make his way up the marble staircase, biding his time by admiring the various portraits and paintings on the walls. Ancestors of the Malfoy family and depicted scenes from various eras adorn the walls as Ron continues to climb. He wonders what he actually hopes to accomplish by seeing either Harry or Hermione. At the pub he had decided that he needed to talk to them and that he wanted a fresh start. But how he hopes to achieve such a thing so early in the morning does not seem logical to Ron.
He reckons he should talk to Harry, seeing as he may be the hardest to get through to. Ron wants to tell Hermione that he knows about Harry and Malfoy’s relationship, and that he wants to have a normal marriage with her. He doesn’t want them to fight and be angry all the time, and he doesn’t want there to be secrets. But in order for him to confess his knowledge, he has to get permission from Harry. Ron doesn’t think that this will be easy.
Which is why he should start to communicate with Harry now, he decides. Even if it’s late, or early, if he starts to communicate now it will save him a day of communication in the future.
It doesn’t cross Ron’s mind that he was only let in to the Manor to talk to Hermione and not Harry as he turns toward the west wing.
As he draws near to the bedroom door, Ron wonders if Malfoy is in the room with Harry. Apparently Malfoy is supposed to be helping Harry recover. Ron shudders; he does not want to face Malfoy right now.
Ron peeks into the bedroom, quickly checking to see who is there. He sees a form lying on Harry’s bed, its chest rising and falling slowly. The only other thing in the room is the arm chair, and the drawn curtains and slowly rising sun cause its shadow to stretch all the way to the entrance. Ron slips in, carefully closing the door behind him. The form on the bed promptly tosses, and Ron now sees that it’s Harry. He’s strapped to the bed like he had been when Ron had last seen him.
“Hey there, Harry.” Ron says quietly as he takes cautious steps. Harry stares up at him as Ron crouches down. Ron begins undoing the straps that tie Harry to the bed.
“I wanted to see you, Harry. I wanted to talk to you and ask you something.” Ron takes Harry’s hand in one of his. He places his other hand on Harry’s shoulder and then his back and helps him sit up. Ron swings Harry’s legs over the side of the bed and joins him.
Ron squeezes Harry’s hand, trying to catch his attention as Harry’s eyes begin wandering around the room. “Do you hear me, Harry?” Ron whispers, staring intently into Harry’s eyes as Harry’s vision finally focuses on him. Ron gives him a small smile. Harry’s eyes seem lighter, as if they recognize Ron, and it gives him the confidence to continue.
“Do you remember me, Harry? I’m your best mate, Ron. Ron Weasley.” Harry continues to stare at Ron, and Ron carries on.
“You’ve been gone a long time, Harry. It seems like it was a whole different lifetime when you were with us.” Ron smiles as Harry cocks his head. “But we’re glad you’re back, you know. All of us are. Hermione and me and… Malfoy. We’re all glad. No one else knows yet, and right now we’re keeping you at Malfoy’s house instead of at the Ministry. Can you imagine that? Malfoy’s house; I bet you never thought we’d end up here. Hell, I never did either.
“Mum is worried about you. She keeps wanting to know how you’re doing, if you’re improving at all. Ginny doesn’t know what to do but cry every time I mention you back at the Burrow. I think she feels hopeless because she doesn’t know if she should be happy that you’re back or sad that you’re not well.”
Ron is losing Harry’s attention, and Harry begins murmuring to himself, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. Ron feels himself panic, knowing that he has been rambling and that he needs to keep some sort of communication going with Harry. He knows it’s useless hoping that Harry will respond, but if he can keep eye contact with Harry, it will reassure him that Harry at least acknowledges Ron’s presence. Maybe Harry can hear Ron, even if he doesn’t say anything.
Ron shakes Harry’s shoulder, but it does not affect him. Ron snaps his fingers, but Harry doesn’t notice. Ron feels the bubbles of panic rise from his stomach and into his throat. He tries grabbing Harry’s chin and forcing Harry to look toward Ron, but Harry’s eyes wander. Ron thinks back to how he had first caught Harry’s attention. He gazes at Harry and then down at his lap, feeling forlorn. He squeezes Harry’s hand, hoping that it will comfort himself.
It takes a moment for Ron to realize that Harry’s mumbling has stopped, and that he’s looking at Ron.
Excited, Ron starts up again, squeezing Harry’s hand repeatedly. He hopes it will keep Harry focused long enough for him to ask his question.
“Harry, I need you to remember. You need to remember the night before you left Hogwarts, when you told me something. You told me to never let them know what I know. I’ve done what you’ve told me to do Harry, but now I need to tell them. I need Hermione to trust me again. I need her to want to come home, and the only way I can do that is to get rid of all our secrets and to stop doing the things she hates. But I need to stop being angry first, and I need to get this out of the way.”
Harry’s looking away again, and Ron squeezes his hand desperately. His voice rises in pitch as he speaks even faster than before.
“Harry, I know you were with Malfoy. Hermione knows you were with Malfoy, but she doesn’t know that I know. I want to tell both her and Malfoy that I know, Harry, but I need you to let me.” Ron shakes Harry’s shoulder again as Harry begins humming softly. “Harry, please listen! Please let me tell them!”
Ron wishes that Harry would look at him now. Even if Harry cannot speak to him, he knows that if Harry were to look him in the eye, it would mean Ron has Harry’s permission. Ron forces all his will power into his grip on Harry’s hand, hoping that it will make Harry gaze at him.
But Harry doesn’t turn toward Ron again. He continues to gawk at the ceiling.
Ron stares at his friend in silent horror. He knows things don’t usually and probably never turn out the way he wants. But if he could have this one thing, he reasons, then his life would be perfect. Because once Ron gets Harry’s permission, he plans on putting his life back in order.
He doesn’t know if it’s perfect or awful timing that permits Hermione to storm into the room at that moment.
She does not march in as fast as he would have imagined. Ron frowns as his wife nears, and she holds a hand to her head. But Ron knows better than to sit comfortably, because by the look on Hermione’s face he knows he shouldn’t be sitting here at all.
“Ronald Weasley! What do you think you’re doing?”
Ron does not stand to face his wife. Nor does he let go of Harry’s hand as he looks up at Hermione.
“I’m talking to Harry, Hermione.”
“I can see that!” Hermione’s nostril’s flare as she points an accusing finger at Ron. “Toti said you were here to see me, Ron - you’re not allowed to be here with Harry.”
“But Hermione,” Ron says, exasperation evident in his voice, “I need Harry to understand me, and -“
“He doesn’t understand anyone!” Hermione shrieks.
Ron wonders why Hermione is up tight, but persists. “That’s not what you said last week, Hermione. Just because the therapy and the lessons and the medicine doesn’t work doesn’t mean that we can’t find something to help him. Or do you no longer have faith in him?”
“This is not a matter of faith, Ron. This is about what Harry wants.”
“And how do you know what Harry wants?” Ron bellows, now standing to confront his wife. “What if he’s been who-knows-where for ten years, waiting for us to find him and help him, only to realize that we aren’t coming? What if he’s been trying to speak to us all this time but realizes that he can’t?”
“And what if Harry wants to be alone, Ron? What if Harry doesn’t want to be apart of the world any more because he knows people like you would will run to him and need him and use him and not leave him be?”
Hermione’s face is red in anger. Her hair is disheveled and her chest rises and falls quickly. Ron can see Hermione’s frustration with him in her eyes; they are narrowed and sharp, sparkling in her rising fury.
Ron feels himself sit down, feeling leaden and weary. How dare Hermione think that Ron would use Harry? Ron is not selfish like that, and he respects Harry; he could never use him. He only wants to fix things right now. He wants to help Harry get better, but also make amends with his wife. Is that being selfish? Is that using Harry?
Hermione looks at the floor, away from where Ron is sitting. He wonders if she is ashamed of what she has just said. It’s possible, he decides, seeing that Hermione is biting her lip. That or she could be choosing her next words.
“Ron,” Hermione begins, her voice no longer at a crescendo, “I don’t want to fight; we’ve done enough fighting over the past ten years. We don’t need to fight over Harry, because he’s here. We shouldn’t fight about anything, because we should accept each other and our choices.” Hermione sighs and moves toward Ron, sitting on the floor in front of him and Harry. She hesitates before taking Ron’s hand, and Ron suddenly feels a warm spark shoot up from his finger tips. The contact is warm and he cannot help but relax as Hermione begins to draw circles on his palm with her index finger.
“I want things to work, Ron. But we both need to help each other, and we need to work harder at being more conscious of the other person’s needs.”
“I know, Hermione.” Ron says quickly, fearing that he might not get another chance to speak. “I want to work harder, and I want to help you. But I need you to be at home with me, because home feels so empty when you aren’t there. And that’s why I need to talk to Harry, why I need him to understand, because there are things I want to tell you but I can’t do that without his permission.”
Hermione stops concentrating on Ron’s hand and instead looks up at him. Her eyes are sad and confused.
“Why must you have his permission, Ron?”
Ron grips Hermione’s hand. He glances at Harry, who is still absorbed in the walls. He tightens his grip on Harry’s hand as well.
“Because I swore to him that I wouldn’t say anything.”
Hermione tries to say something, but she’s cut off. Another hand is grabbing her free one, and Ron turns in surprise to see that it’s Harry. He is staring straight at Hermione, and Ron does not know what to do. Their connected hands create a triangle and Ron looks from his wife to his friend and wonders what they’re doing. Hermione is wide-eyed and her gaze does not shift from Harry’s. Ron thinks she is not only shocked, but afraid. She is shaking, her skin is ghost white and her mouth forms a small ‘o’. Bewilderment causes Ron to speak.
But before he can, Harry smiles. His muscles twitch and curve and his eyes dance. Ron can’t help but think of children dancing around a fire as he stares, captivated, at Harry. Ron turns to Hermione to see that she’s still shaking, and that she’s trying to pull away from Harry’s grip. Ron wants to know what’s going on.
“What is it, Harry?” He hears himself ask.
Harry’s hand lets go of Hermione’s and she shifts away from Harry and closer to Ron. But Harry’s hand moves to Hermione’s stomach, and his eyes shift from hers and down toward her abdomen. Hermione sits, immobile, and stares up at Ron, who stares back down at her.
Ron doesn’t know what to think. All this is curious, and he knows it has meaning behind it. His head is fluttering with ideas, all like stray butterflies waiting to be caught and examined.
He doesn’t know what to make of Harry, as his friend begins to laugh. He didn’t know Harry could laugh. But his friend sits there, his voice loud and clear. The sound causes Ron to stir, his face flushing from it. His finger tips feel warm again, like when Hermione had been holding his hand. It’s merry, Ron realizes; Harry laughs out of joy.
Ron looks down at Hermione’s abdomen, where Harry’s hand still lies. He looks up at Hermione, her eyes fearful, and he realizes. He thinks he knows why Hermione’s scared, because there’s something that she needs to tell him and she doesn’t know how he’ll feel.
“Is there something,” Ron says, waiting for Harry’s laughter to die down, “that you need to say?”
Hermione nods once, closing her eyes as if in pain. Ron squeezes her hand, but she withdraws it from his grasp. She takes several slow breaths before she speaks.
“We’re going to have a child, Ron.”
Ron doesn’t know what to say, but he knows what he’s feeling. There’s an explosion within him, and he feels it all build up and it’s warm like chocolate sliding down his throat and it burns like when he sits too close to the fire. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he feels himself on the ground, on his knees, and he can feel Hermione pressing against him, pushing away. But he holds on desperately, and there’s relief when he embraces her like ice on a sting and all he can smell is mint, and all he can see is hair, and slowly she embraces him as well.
“Merlin, I love you, Hermione,” he hears over and over again in his head, and its echo is louder and clearer as he hears himself whisper it. Hermione’s hands tighten into fists in his robes and Ron feels her tremble and he doesn’t know why but he’s grateful that he’s there to hold her and support her.
And he swears to himself, as fiercely as his heart allows, that from now on he will be here everyday to give this to Hermione.
<< LASSITUDE (part 1) || RESIPISCENCE (part 1) >>
Disintegration:
Part 1, Part 2
Lassitude:
Part 1, Part 2
Resipiscence:
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, End
Lassitude (part 2)
There is hardly any light in the room as she opens her eyes. She is dimly aware of a candle in the corner of the room. Its glow should be soft, ethereal, like faint faerie lights enchanting a night encrusted garden, but instead is blinding in the dark expanse of the room. Hermione looks up at the ceiling, where it is not as bright, and she watches the shadows of various objects as they cast themselves on the walls. The shadows remind her of memories, imprinted and wavering, never stable and always changing. With every thought they shift and mold, transforming into an altered form of the original. She wonders if that is how Harry perceives his world.
Thoughts of Harry cause her to shudder. What power could possibly have manifested itself and caused her friend’s lunacy? A thought in the back of Hermione’s mind suggests that he could have brought his madness on himself, by being away from society or any possible guilt that might have followed him to wherever he went, but Hermione banishes it. Harry would never do that to himself, she rationalizes.
Prohibiting any further thoughts, Hermione focus on her surroundings. As her eyes begin to grow accustomed to the lighting she recognizes the velvet hangings on the canopy of the bed. Rich navy paint comprises the walls and silver accents glimmer in the candle light. Hermione shudders again.
Her chambers at Malfoy Manor are cold. She wishes there was a fire in the fire place.
Hermione crawls out of the bed, slipping out of the silk covers. She pads over to where she knows the fire place is, and lowers herself onto her knees. She wonders why her muscles ache. Her shoulders scream as she rolls them, her legs are cramped and sore. Her abdomen, too, is slightly painful, and she winces as her back refuses to bend to her will.
Belatedly, Hermione realizes that it’s useless for her to be on the floor; she does not have her wand with her to light a fire. She crawls painstakingly slowly toward the large armchair a couple meters away and uses it as a support, putting all her weight on top of it. Hermione’s legs wobble as she tries to stand and steady herself. She glances around the room, searching for her wand. Hermione is fully aware that she did not move herself to this room. She finds it perplexing that her wand would be seized from her.
There is a soft pop as Hermione pushes stray locks of hair back into their place.
“Is Miss alright?”
Hermione looks toward the house elf in surprise. “Toti?”
The elf nods.
“What are you doing at the Manor?”
“Master Draco was needing more help here, Miss. Toti said shes could take care of Master Potter.”
“You knew I’d be here, didn’t you?”
Toti’s head bobs, her ears flapping. “Toti hasn’t seen Miss at Malfoy Quarters for ages.”
“Toti, I’ve told you that it’s called a flat.”
Toti cocks her head. “But Quarters are not flat, Miss.”
Hermione sighs and rubs her forehead. “No they aren’t.”
Toti shuffles her feet. “Is Miss needing anything? Toti thoughts she heard someone call.”
“Tell me how I got into my chambers, Toti; I recall fainting in a room on the other side of the Manor.”
“Master Draco had Toti and other house elves bring Miss to her bed.”
“How was Draco?”
Toti bites her lip. Hermione urges her to speak, reminding her that they’re friends and that Draco trusts her. “Master was pale, Miss.”
Hermione hesitates before nodding, knowing that Toti will not betray anything else. She shudders; the feeling reminds her of snowball fights when she was at Hogwarts, and how the boys would stuff ice down the back of her uniform. She feels like the ice is sliding down her back, leaving a trail of newly melted snow in its wake.
“Toti, would you be kind enough to light a fire for me? I’m not sure where my wand is.”
Toti bounces a little and scurries toward the fireplace. Immediately a fire springs up, and Hermione watches Toti scamper back.
“Thank you, Miss.”
Hermione chuckles a little. “You’re too easily enthralled when I give you something to do, aren’t you?
“Miss never lets Toti do things for her.”
“Thank you, Toti.”
Hermione turns around to sit in her arm chair, and she lowers herself slowly, hoping to prevent any pain. She closes her eyes in weariness, only to open them again when a small hand tugs on her robes.
“Yes Toti?”
“Madame says Miss may have her wand back.”
Hermione looks at Toti in surprise as the house elf, dressed in the remains of a velvet curtain, steps up on her tip-toes to hand Hermione her wand. She takes the vine wood from the elf, nodding her thanks as she stares at the wand in wonder. Toti bows and leaves, taking care so as not to disturb Hermione.
The fire crackles, golden sparks dancing as they enchant the darkness before them. They send ribbons of light shooting across the room, vibrant and full of energy. Eventually spent, the sparks spiral downwards, twirling and curling in on themselves. Like ballet dancers, Hermione muses; they leap and glide and whirl with grace and speed, only to end in a slow, melancholy flow of fluid movements. She continues to watch the embers of the fire as she fingers her wand.
Who had had her wand? Hermione is the only woman left in the house, and the only ‘Madame’ that Hermione can think of is no longer allowed in the Manor. As soon as she left, Wilone was to never be able to enter again.
Unless, Hermione realizes, she has yet to leave.
Quite suddenly, Hermione hears the curtains to the windows being torn open. The sound of the rings running across the rail startles her, and she tenses in her chair. There is no downpour of light coming from the direction of the windows behind her, and Hermione curses. Without light, there are no shadows. Hermione grips her armchair in anticipation, her ears pricked for any sound of movement.
Clicking approaches, but becomes muffled as the footsteps travel from stone floor to carpet. It stops to the right of her chair, and Hermione can feel the person hovering there. She refuses to acknowledge the person’s presence, and waits for the person to speak first.
“Finest elf in all of England, I dare say. She was trained by the best.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Which is obviously not you, Wilone, seeing as Toti was brought from Denmark.”
Wilone does not comment. She moves in front of where Hermione is seated, her skirts rustling as she turns to face Hermione. Wilone glares down at her, holding her hands behind her. Hermione stares up at Wilone in silence.
“There is no wonder as to why my widower is so fond of you; you are far too obstinate to be a proper lady.”
“Why don’t you ever call him Draco?” Hermione spits out, forgetting her silence and ignoring Wilone’s comment.
Wilone laughs. It is not a pleasant sound, but like a knife, slicing at Hermione’s nerves. There is no mirth, no amusement. There is only contempt molded into a box, taking the place of Wilone’s voice in her throat.
“Of all things, I had expected you to ask me why I speak as if death had been brought down upon me.”
“That was my next question.”
Wilone’s dark eyes look malevolent in the firelight. They flicker and brighten into gold and amber, then are instantly wiped, blank and dark, only to blaze again. Her eyes are life and death within a moment.
“It is not my place to call him by name, and I only hold resentment for those lower than I who are disrespectful enough to do otherwise.”
“If I cut away all the flamboyant wording, you are simply saying that I’m worthless.”
“I wanted to be sure that the implication was clear.”
Hermione scoffs, rolling her eyes. “A word of advice; if you ever want to tell anyone what you want them to know, say it. Don’t gloss things over or make them more dazzling with your excessive words. Anyone would have nightmares if they even tried to catch your meaning.”
Wilone’s eyes narrow, her face growing sour and contorted in the firelight. Her lips pucker and she steps forward, towering over the seated Hermione.
“You’re not worth the slime and filth on a rat’s tail, Mudblood.”
Hermione’s eyes widen. She has not heard that derogatory term since the early days of her career at the research department. The only one who had called her by such a station - no, not a station, but a crude, degrading name - was Draco, on the days that Hermione had pestered him most.
“Tell me,” Hermione says, finding her voice quickly. It hardens as she narrows her eyes, “Are you simply a reincarnate of your husband’s past prejudice, or do you have an opinion at all?”
Wilone’s pursed lips stretch into a smirk as she takes a step back. Her robes flow after her.
“Did you pick up your snark from him?”
“Who? Ron? Harry? Trust me when I say that neither has much snark in them.”
“That is a given, seeing as your husband is never sober and Mr. Potter is dead.”
In a flash, Hermione’s on her feet, her wand tip at Wilone’s pale throat. She can feel her hair standing, energy crackling on the ends. Her body temperature is rising and she’s itching and it feels like she’s being chewed by giant ants. She can feel their incisors digging into her skin, and she tries her hardest to keep her voice low and dangerous.
“I am usually a very tolerant woman, Wilone. But ever since I met you at the reunion five years ago there has been something about you that I haven’t liked. I have had enough of you tonight, and I never want to have to see you again. Draco is no longer your husband, and you are no longer welcome in this house. Now leave, before I let him know that you’re here.”
Wilone’s smirk slowly slips from her face, and she pulls her hands from behind her back, caring a picture frame between her fingers. She looks down at it, and Hermione can see that it contains a small photo of Rene. The child is playing in a sepia garden, composed of amber, white and chocolate flowers. She laughs as she chases a small, white butterfly, her spring dress light and bouncing with every footstep. Her dark, blonde hair, not as fair as her father’s, dances in the wind as her hat is blown off her head. Rene stops to pick it up with her small hands and she looks up at Hermione. Her brown eyes are enhanced in the coloring of the photo, and she seems innocent as she smiles. Hermione wonders why Draco hates Rene.
“Sometimes,” Wilone says, her voice cold, barely above a whisper, “I wonder why he agreed to have a child. Not only does he not care for her, but his sexual orientation doesn’t even permit him to love me.”
“You don’t have to be heterosexual to love a member of the opposite sex.” Hermione says through gritted teeth.
Wilone doesn’t look up. Her head seems to sink further down, as if her mind is trapped within the frame of the picture. Maybe Wilone wishes to be caught in the world where only her daughter exists, where there is only the peace and joy of flowers and sunshine and ignorance. Hermione watches as wisps of brown hair fall from their place in Wilone’s pins and down into her face. They seem to slip and pool down in loose locks, hiding Wilone. Hermione watches in silent wonder, pondering what Wilone could possibly be thinking.
Hermione notices a small tremor in Wilone’s shoulders and the woman’s head falls farther down. Hermione is almost worried as Wilone does not move any further. It soon seems as if she’s become a statue, and the grief Hermione feels radiating from Wilone is presented in the folds of her clothes, in the way her hair drapes. It is present in the posture of the woman as her head hangs and her hands are clenched in silent pain. Hermione muses that Wilone is a masterpiece of pain.
After several long moments of no movement nor sound, Hermione shifts and her hand reaches to touch Wilone’s. She’s afraid to break the silence. But Hermione’s basic instinct screams in fear, terrified that Wilone might not even be alive. What if her sorrow had clamped down on her heart and stopped its beating? What if it had rendered her incapable of anything?
Hermione might not like Wilone, but she must show some sort of compassion.
But before there’s any contact, Wilone straightens, standing tall and regal. Hermione doesn’t know if Wilone has been crying, but her cheeks are tinged and blotched. Hermione feels something pull at her heart, something that feels like tweezers plucking at her heartstrings. Something that causes her to body sag from its weight; it tastes bitter and cold. It reminds her of dreary days where there are only gray clouds in the sky and the atmosphere is murky.
Sympathy.
“Where will you go?” Hermione hears herself say.
Wilone looks down at her, and as she speaks her voice, tight and unsteady, betrays the fear behind the mask of composure.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Hermione doesn’t know what to say, feeling her mind and voice empty of any comfort. Annoyance begins to play at the tips of her consciousness again as she watches Wilone turn on her heel, her skirts sweeping after her. It irritates her how such a woman can stir so many emotions in Hermione at once.
Hermione turns back around and lowers herself into her armchair again, suddenly realizing how tired she is. She closes her eyes and imagines hearing Wilone open the door. Hermione tries to wipe her conscience of any thought and emotion pertaining to Wilone, feeling like she cannot take any more. She needs to relax before she tries again to see Harry and Draco.
“Congratulations.”
Hermione starts, opening her eyes again to find Wilone staring down at her. She almost thinks that she’s staring at her abdomen.
“I beg you pardon?”
A ghost of a smile forms on Wilone’s face.
“If I were still my husband’s wife, Rene might have had a playmate. That is, of course, totally dependent on whether or not he would have allowed the two to be in each other’s company.”
Hermione watches in shock as Wilone leaves. She had tried to forget Wilone and everything that she was feeling, but a flurry of emotions is taking over Hermione’s efforts. Excitement, joy, anxiety, confusion; all painted on a canvas that was herself. Pastels and paints of colors and scents splattered on, all evoking something different, stirring her. She feels light and heavy, and her body doesn’t know if gravity pulls her up or down, and everything is a mixture of cool and warmth, all being spun around by some invisible finger, playing with her being.
Wilone’s statement seems valid - how else can Hermione’s fatigue, nausea and dizzy spells be explained? She has experienced this once before, and she owes it to her multiple distractions that she has not realized it until now.
Dread seeps in as Hermione sits back in her seat. It’s a sinking feeling that’s black and infectious, and it crawls throughout her body. She does not know if she’s happy with the truth, and Hermione bites down nervously on her lip. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many factors that might not allow her the happiness that should come with such news. But she deserves this happiness.
But how will her husband feel if he is told the truth?
*
Rain was never a good sign.
Rain reflects the mood of a person or the consequences one must face or even the outcome of a situation or problem. At least, that is what Ron believes.
His footsteps become heavy as he treks through the mud on the path. He is lucky he chose a pub near the Manor tonight, because he has had to walk the entire night to get here. If the Manor had been any farther, Ron would have had to wait until he was sober to find Harry and Hermione. By then he may have convinced himself to not go to the Manor at all.
The rain continues to plummet down, beating against Ron’s neck. He’s lucky that the rain is cold, as it seems to clear his sight and his mind. His boots crunch on the gravel as he nears the front veranda of Malfoy Manor. The crunching grows louder and faster, and when Ron stops he realizes that he isn’t the one making the noise. He looks up into the dark enveloped night only to see another dark figure move toward him, away from the lights of the Manor. It doubles in size as it approaches and Ron steps out of the way when he realizes that it is a carriage. The horses pulling the carriage neigh and snort as they pass Ron, hazy condensation shooting out their nostrils and rising into the night sky, and he watches them as they trot past.
A blonde head pokes out of the window and smiles. She waves clumsily before she’s pulled back in. Ron watches tentatively as he hears a voice mutter, “Stay inside the carriage, Rene.”
He wonders why Rene and Wilone are leaving the Manor this late a night.
Ron shakes his head as he wipes the mud off his boots against the pavement. He thinks he recalls Hermione mentioning something about Wilone leaving, but that had been hours ago. In fact, that had been yesterday evening, seeing as how the sun will be up any minute now.
He trudges up to the entrance of the Manor, and a light springs up at his presence. Cautiously, Ron opens his mouth to speak.
“Ron Weasley here to see Harry Potter. Please.” He adds as an after thought.
The Manor is silent before him, and the extinguishing of the veranda light causes Ron to become nervous. There is no answer to his call as he speaks the words again. Ron does not want to turn around. He needs to see Harry and try and fix things between them, even if Harry might not understand him. He needs to see Hermione. Ron needs to apologize to her and tell her…
Wait.
“Ron Weasley here to see Hermione Granger,” Ron says in a rush. For the first time, he hopes that Hermione has actually chosen to stay at the Manor instead of return home. He holds his breath, only to exhale when the front door creaks open. He’s greeted by a small house elf, draped in the remains of a velvet curtain.
“Toti wishes Ron Weasley a good evening. Miss is in the east wing in her chambers, Sir.”
Ron nods and steps over the threshold. He’s thankful that he’s more sober now than before, as the lights in the foyer might have blinded him. “Thank you, Toti.”
With a small bow, Toti closes the Manor door. Ron turns his gaze toward the grand staircase. After magicking away the rest of the mud on his boots, Ron begins to make his way up the marble staircase, biding his time by admiring the various portraits and paintings on the walls. Ancestors of the Malfoy family and depicted scenes from various eras adorn the walls as Ron continues to climb. He wonders what he actually hopes to accomplish by seeing either Harry or Hermione. At the pub he had decided that he needed to talk to them and that he wanted a fresh start. But how he hopes to achieve such a thing so early in the morning does not seem logical to Ron.
He reckons he should talk to Harry, seeing as he may be the hardest to get through to. Ron wants to tell Hermione that he knows about Harry and Malfoy’s relationship, and that he wants to have a normal marriage with her. He doesn’t want them to fight and be angry all the time, and he doesn’t want there to be secrets. But in order for him to confess his knowledge, he has to get permission from Harry. Ron doesn’t think that this will be easy.
Which is why he should start to communicate with Harry now, he decides. Even if it’s late, or early, if he starts to communicate now it will save him a day of communication in the future.
It doesn’t cross Ron’s mind that he was only let in to the Manor to talk to Hermione and not Harry as he turns toward the west wing.
As he draws near to the bedroom door, Ron wonders if Malfoy is in the room with Harry. Apparently Malfoy is supposed to be helping Harry recover. Ron shudders; he does not want to face Malfoy right now.
Ron peeks into the bedroom, quickly checking to see who is there. He sees a form lying on Harry’s bed, its chest rising and falling slowly. The only other thing in the room is the arm chair, and the drawn curtains and slowly rising sun cause its shadow to stretch all the way to the entrance. Ron slips in, carefully closing the door behind him. The form on the bed promptly tosses, and Ron now sees that it’s Harry. He’s strapped to the bed like he had been when Ron had last seen him.
“Hey there, Harry.” Ron says quietly as he takes cautious steps. Harry stares up at him as Ron crouches down. Ron begins undoing the straps that tie Harry to the bed.
“I wanted to see you, Harry. I wanted to talk to you and ask you something.” Ron takes Harry’s hand in one of his. He places his other hand on Harry’s shoulder and then his back and helps him sit up. Ron swings Harry’s legs over the side of the bed and joins him.
Ron squeezes Harry’s hand, trying to catch his attention as Harry’s eyes begin wandering around the room. “Do you hear me, Harry?” Ron whispers, staring intently into Harry’s eyes as Harry’s vision finally focuses on him. Ron gives him a small smile. Harry’s eyes seem lighter, as if they recognize Ron, and it gives him the confidence to continue.
“Do you remember me, Harry? I’m your best mate, Ron. Ron Weasley.” Harry continues to stare at Ron, and Ron carries on.
“You’ve been gone a long time, Harry. It seems like it was a whole different lifetime when you were with us.” Ron smiles as Harry cocks his head. “But we’re glad you’re back, you know. All of us are. Hermione and me and… Malfoy. We’re all glad. No one else knows yet, and right now we’re keeping you at Malfoy’s house instead of at the Ministry. Can you imagine that? Malfoy’s house; I bet you never thought we’d end up here. Hell, I never did either.
“Mum is worried about you. She keeps wanting to know how you’re doing, if you’re improving at all. Ginny doesn’t know what to do but cry every time I mention you back at the Burrow. I think she feels hopeless because she doesn’t know if she should be happy that you’re back or sad that you’re not well.”
Ron is losing Harry’s attention, and Harry begins murmuring to himself, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. Ron feels himself panic, knowing that he has been rambling and that he needs to keep some sort of communication going with Harry. He knows it’s useless hoping that Harry will respond, but if he can keep eye contact with Harry, it will reassure him that Harry at least acknowledges Ron’s presence. Maybe Harry can hear Ron, even if he doesn’t say anything.
Ron shakes Harry’s shoulder, but it does not affect him. Ron snaps his fingers, but Harry doesn’t notice. Ron feels the bubbles of panic rise from his stomach and into his throat. He tries grabbing Harry’s chin and forcing Harry to look toward Ron, but Harry’s eyes wander. Ron thinks back to how he had first caught Harry’s attention. He gazes at Harry and then down at his lap, feeling forlorn. He squeezes Harry’s hand, hoping that it will comfort himself.
It takes a moment for Ron to realize that Harry’s mumbling has stopped, and that he’s looking at Ron.
Excited, Ron starts up again, squeezing Harry’s hand repeatedly. He hopes it will keep Harry focused long enough for him to ask his question.
“Harry, I need you to remember. You need to remember the night before you left Hogwarts, when you told me something. You told me to never let them know what I know. I’ve done what you’ve told me to do Harry, but now I need to tell them. I need Hermione to trust me again. I need her to want to come home, and the only way I can do that is to get rid of all our secrets and to stop doing the things she hates. But I need to stop being angry first, and I need to get this out of the way.”
Harry’s looking away again, and Ron squeezes his hand desperately. His voice rises in pitch as he speaks even faster than before.
“Harry, I know you were with Malfoy. Hermione knows you were with Malfoy, but she doesn’t know that I know. I want to tell both her and Malfoy that I know, Harry, but I need you to let me.” Ron shakes Harry’s shoulder again as Harry begins humming softly. “Harry, please listen! Please let me tell them!”
Ron wishes that Harry would look at him now. Even if Harry cannot speak to him, he knows that if Harry were to look him in the eye, it would mean Ron has Harry’s permission. Ron forces all his will power into his grip on Harry’s hand, hoping that it will make Harry gaze at him.
But Harry doesn’t turn toward Ron again. He continues to gawk at the ceiling.
Ron stares at his friend in silent horror. He knows things don’t usually and probably never turn out the way he wants. But if he could have this one thing, he reasons, then his life would be perfect. Because once Ron gets Harry’s permission, he plans on putting his life back in order.
He doesn’t know if it’s perfect or awful timing that permits Hermione to storm into the room at that moment.
She does not march in as fast as he would have imagined. Ron frowns as his wife nears, and she holds a hand to her head. But Ron knows better than to sit comfortably, because by the look on Hermione’s face he knows he shouldn’t be sitting here at all.
“Ronald Weasley! What do you think you’re doing?”
Ron does not stand to face his wife. Nor does he let go of Harry’s hand as he looks up at Hermione.
“I’m talking to Harry, Hermione.”
“I can see that!” Hermione’s nostril’s flare as she points an accusing finger at Ron. “Toti said you were here to see me, Ron - you’re not allowed to be here with Harry.”
“But Hermione,” Ron says, exasperation evident in his voice, “I need Harry to understand me, and -“
“He doesn’t understand anyone!” Hermione shrieks.
Ron wonders why Hermione is up tight, but persists. “That’s not what you said last week, Hermione. Just because the therapy and the lessons and the medicine doesn’t work doesn’t mean that we can’t find something to help him. Or do you no longer have faith in him?”
“This is not a matter of faith, Ron. This is about what Harry wants.”
“And how do you know what Harry wants?” Ron bellows, now standing to confront his wife. “What if he’s been who-knows-where for ten years, waiting for us to find him and help him, only to realize that we aren’t coming? What if he’s been trying to speak to us all this time but realizes that he can’t?”
“And what if Harry wants to be alone, Ron? What if Harry doesn’t want to be apart of the world any more because he knows people like you would will run to him and need him and use him and not leave him be?”
Hermione’s face is red in anger. Her hair is disheveled and her chest rises and falls quickly. Ron can see Hermione’s frustration with him in her eyes; they are narrowed and sharp, sparkling in her rising fury.
Ron feels himself sit down, feeling leaden and weary. How dare Hermione think that Ron would use Harry? Ron is not selfish like that, and he respects Harry; he could never use him. He only wants to fix things right now. He wants to help Harry get better, but also make amends with his wife. Is that being selfish? Is that using Harry?
Hermione looks at the floor, away from where Ron is sitting. He wonders if she is ashamed of what she has just said. It’s possible, he decides, seeing that Hermione is biting her lip. That or she could be choosing her next words.
“Ron,” Hermione begins, her voice no longer at a crescendo, “I don’t want to fight; we’ve done enough fighting over the past ten years. We don’t need to fight over Harry, because he’s here. We shouldn’t fight about anything, because we should accept each other and our choices.” Hermione sighs and moves toward Ron, sitting on the floor in front of him and Harry. She hesitates before taking Ron’s hand, and Ron suddenly feels a warm spark shoot up from his finger tips. The contact is warm and he cannot help but relax as Hermione begins to draw circles on his palm with her index finger.
“I want things to work, Ron. But we both need to help each other, and we need to work harder at being more conscious of the other person’s needs.”
“I know, Hermione.” Ron says quickly, fearing that he might not get another chance to speak. “I want to work harder, and I want to help you. But I need you to be at home with me, because home feels so empty when you aren’t there. And that’s why I need to talk to Harry, why I need him to understand, because there are things I want to tell you but I can’t do that without his permission.”
Hermione stops concentrating on Ron’s hand and instead looks up at him. Her eyes are sad and confused.
“Why must you have his permission, Ron?”
Ron grips Hermione’s hand. He glances at Harry, who is still absorbed in the walls. He tightens his grip on Harry’s hand as well.
“Because I swore to him that I wouldn’t say anything.”
Hermione tries to say something, but she’s cut off. Another hand is grabbing her free one, and Ron turns in surprise to see that it’s Harry. He is staring straight at Hermione, and Ron does not know what to do. Their connected hands create a triangle and Ron looks from his wife to his friend and wonders what they’re doing. Hermione is wide-eyed and her gaze does not shift from Harry’s. Ron thinks she is not only shocked, but afraid. She is shaking, her skin is ghost white and her mouth forms a small ‘o’. Bewilderment causes Ron to speak.
But before he can, Harry smiles. His muscles twitch and curve and his eyes dance. Ron can’t help but think of children dancing around a fire as he stares, captivated, at Harry. Ron turns to Hermione to see that she’s still shaking, and that she’s trying to pull away from Harry’s grip. Ron wants to know what’s going on.
“What is it, Harry?” He hears himself ask.
Harry’s hand lets go of Hermione’s and she shifts away from Harry and closer to Ron. But Harry’s hand moves to Hermione’s stomach, and his eyes shift from hers and down toward her abdomen. Hermione sits, immobile, and stares up at Ron, who stares back down at her.
Ron doesn’t know what to think. All this is curious, and he knows it has meaning behind it. His head is fluttering with ideas, all like stray butterflies waiting to be caught and examined.
He doesn’t know what to make of Harry, as his friend begins to laugh. He didn’t know Harry could laugh. But his friend sits there, his voice loud and clear. The sound causes Ron to stir, his face flushing from it. His finger tips feel warm again, like when Hermione had been holding his hand. It’s merry, Ron realizes; Harry laughs out of joy.
Ron looks down at Hermione’s abdomen, where Harry’s hand still lies. He looks up at Hermione, her eyes fearful, and he realizes. He thinks he knows why Hermione’s scared, because there’s something that she needs to tell him and she doesn’t know how he’ll feel.
“Is there something,” Ron says, waiting for Harry’s laughter to die down, “that you need to say?”
Hermione nods once, closing her eyes as if in pain. Ron squeezes her hand, but she withdraws it from his grasp. She takes several slow breaths before she speaks.
“We’re going to have a child, Ron.”
Ron doesn’t know what to say, but he knows what he’s feeling. There’s an explosion within him, and he feels it all build up and it’s warm like chocolate sliding down his throat and it burns like when he sits too close to the fire. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he feels himself on the ground, on his knees, and he can feel Hermione pressing against him, pushing away. But he holds on desperately, and there’s relief when he embraces her like ice on a sting and all he can smell is mint, and all he can see is hair, and slowly she embraces him as well.
“Merlin, I love you, Hermione,” he hears over and over again in his head, and its echo is louder and clearer as he hears himself whisper it. Hermione’s hands tighten into fists in his robes and Ron feels her tremble and he doesn’t know why but he’s grateful that he’s there to hold her and support her.
And he swears to himself, as fiercely as his heart allows, that from now on he will be here everyday to give this to Hermione.
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