Caught in the fire

By Penny-in-the-sky

RATING: PG-13

SUMMARY: After a rough night, Hermione seeks refuge in the one person she feels completely safe with.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is set approximately five years after Harry, Ron and Hermione graduated from Hogwarts. You may find the background story a bit odd, and maybe it is, but I just wanted something that would make Hermione run to Ron's home in the middle of the night, and this seemed fitting.

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling owns it all. Well, except for Gary, whom I've created, but he's not really someone to be proud of... The song lyrics are from "You" by Radiohead.

*****

"You are the sun and moon and stars are you,
and I could never run away from you.
You try at working out chaotic things,
and why should I believe myself not you?
It's like the world is going to end so soon,
and why should I believe myself?

You me and everything caught in the fire,
I can see me drowning, caught in the fire."

*****

What was she doing?

She was running. Running.

What? Running. Running. Running.

She kept her mind focused on the word as she fled on. Or, more like stumbled on. Her whole body was numb and she was unable to move in any co-ordinated fashion, so, she stumbled. Stumbled onward, forward, towards something, away from...

Running. She was running. Running. Running.

She had to focus, had to keep her mind focused on that one word. The split second she let that word leave her mind, everything became a mess again, and other words popped up, words she couldn't think about right now. So she was running. Only running. Concentrating utterly and completely on that one thing, that one activity. Running.

But it was hard. Her mind was too active, too willing to work. It couldn't, it wouldn't stay focused on just one word, and she was unable to prevent bits and pieces of things she didn't want to think about from slipping through.

Don't you ever speak to me like that.

She gave a small, involuntary cry, but kept going. She couldn't stop, mustn't stop. If she stopped she was afraid she'd never be able to move again, she was afraid she'd take root, physically take root in the asphalt underneath her. She was afraid that if she stopped, she'd dissolve into millions and millions of tiny fragments, the pieces of her spreading with the wind to far off places. Then she'd be lost forever. Truly lost.

I thought you'd learned by now. I thought you'd understood.

Understood. She'd never understood. He'd often said that to her, pointed out how slow-minded she could be, for "such a clever girl", as he put it. How strange he'd thought it was that there were people who actually admired her mind.

No, she'd never understood. She'd never understood his reasoning, his logic, his prejudices, his envy, his blind anger. She'd never even understood what it was he so desperately wanted her to understand.

You're incapable of understanding. You're incapable of changing yourself.

She was indeed. And she was incapable of understanding why it was so important to him that she changed herself. She'd never been good enough, not when she was just herself. She wasn't enough.

And change? Who was he to talk about that when he himself so obviously never would change. Change, or hope of it, was what had kept her with him for such a long time. She had hoped that he was capable of it, capable of becoming a different person, a better person.

She stumbled on. It felt as if her body was becoming heavier, her speed was decreasing. There was a wooden ball the size of a coconut in her stomach, and her lungs were suddenly of no use. She found herself holding her breath. But after less than fifteen steps she was gasping for air again, going back to her erratic breathing. Stumbling on.

What's wrong with you? You have to learn...

She'd never imagined herself to be the abused type. After everything she'd seen on TV and read in magazines, she hadn't thought it was possible that she herself could turn into one of those, in her own eyes, weak women who believed their men to be capable of change, no matter how brutal they became, and claimed that love was what made them stay with them. She'd always thought that, if beaten, she'd beat right back before heading straight for the door. But that first time...

The shock had been enough to numb her brain completely. She'd been frozen solid, unable to speak, unable to breathe. Then the apologies had come. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, I don't know what got into me...". And she'd forgiven him. She'd been a "weak woman" and forgiven him.

As time passed, the apologies had come less often. In the end they'd never come. What he did had just been part of the routine. He'd been teaching her a lesson, a lesson she apparently never fully learned, since the beating didn't stop, and the mind-games and mental abuse didn't stop.

Then suddenly, tonight...

Control freak.

He had thrown it at her, completely unprovoked, as always. He'd spat it out as if the mere thought of her and her mind, "your sick, controlling mind", disgusted him. He'd glared at her, expecting an apology. For what, she didn't know. Maybe for the way her hair looked. Or the fact that she hadn't had time to pay the phone bill yet. Or maybe just an apology for being herself, for standing there looking stupid.

Suddenly she just couldn't do it anymore.

Oh, so I'm a control freak?

Her tone had surprised him. And herself even more. She'd immediately known, from the look in his eyes, that she had taken the first step down a road on which there was no turning back.

Excuse me?

There'd been icicles on his voice. And she'd seen it, then. How cold he was. There was no way of warming a person as cold as that. She'd shivered. What if he had rubbed off on her? What if she wouldn't ever be warm again?

Why do you feel the need to control me, Gary? Why are you that weak?

She'd known what the answer to that would be. She'd known the reaction, and yet she hadn't been able to stop herself from saying it. The blow had come quick and hard, and her head had whipped to the side. She'd barely had time to register the stinging in her cheek before he had grabbed her chin with his hand and forced her to stare into his eyes.

You don't ever speak to me like that. Not ever.

He was so cold.

She'd stared back. He wouldn't win this time. He mustn't win.

Why not? You speak to me like that all the time.

She'd jerked her head out of his grip and made for the door. But within seconds he had grabbed her by the hair and was pushing her face up against the wall.

Don't you leave me.

She'd been sure her jaw would break. The wall was so hard. Her sore cheek had been up against it and she'd felt the rough wallpaper urging to press through her skin. Hot tears had begun stinging her face.

You don't ever leave me.

She'd been having trouble breathing. She'd gasped for air and then done something she'd never thought herself capable of.

She'd fought back.

Snapping her head back, she had hit him full on the nose. Yelling out in pain, he'd let go of her hair and taken a few steps back, grabbing his face. She had seized this opportunity and sprung for the door. But he'd been quick and had been pulling her back by the arm before she'd reached the handle. She'd kicked and screamed as he'd started dragging her back into the living room. One of her desperately fighting legs had managed to find his knee and he'd fallen backwards, letting go of her in the process.

This time she'd gotten all the way to the door and out of it before he'd managed to catch up. She'd raced down the stairs, panting and whimpering in disorder. When she'd almost reached the street door, she'd realised he was coming down the last flight of steps.

Don't you go out that door.

She had turned around, ever so slowly. For a few moments, they had stood there, staring each other dead in the eye. She'd known that something had been bound to happen any second. And it had.

He'd lunged forward, arms outstretched in a ridiculously wild manner. Without thinking, she'd pulled her wand out of her front pocket and aimed it at him. She hadn't even been sure which curse she'd shouted, but it must've been something strong, because he'd flown back with a wail, and landed hard, slumped against the wall.

His eyes had been closed. He hadn't been moving.

Her heart had stopped beating.

Somehow she'd managed to get herself outside. There she'd collapsed in the street, overcome by nausea, and vomited in the gutter 'til she thought her insides would come up. Somehow she'd then managed to get up and start running. And now here she was. On the streets of London, in the middle of the night, running.

She had no idea where she would go. Where could she possibly go after all this? Who could she possibly talk to? She felt the tears come again, and she let out a frustrated yell as she pushed herself to go faster. She had to get away. She had to keep on running. They must never find her. Nobody must ever find her, or she'd surely be sent away. Maybe for life. She'd just gone and ruined her whole life. She would be on the run forever, because there was no way of going back, not now.

She might've killed somebody.

With a desperate cry she fell over and landed on all four on the hard ground. She stood there, head down, sobbing uncontrollably, trying to remember when she'd last been this helpless.

Probably never.

For several minutes she stood like that. Then with one final sob, which racked her whole body, she drew in a ragged breath and looked up.

Oh, of course.

She recognised the building immediately, and her heart sped up. Of course this was where she'd been heading. She should've known. She unsteadily got up and started moving, ever so slowly, towards the door of the building. When there, she studied the names on the list of the people living in the building. Not that it was necessary, really. Fourth floor, apartment 8, she knew that. But she just couldn't bring herself to press the button next to his name. She wanted to, she desperately wanted to get up to him and be warm again, but there was something holding her back. What it was, she couldn't say. Maybe she was unsure of what to say to him. How to explain. Maybe she just didn't want him dragged into this mess she'd managed to create.

Her longing got the better of her in the end, and before she could stop herself she pressed the button. For a few, killing seconds, she thought he wasn't home, but then his voice came out of the speaker, tired and rasping.

"Yes?"

That one, tiny word, spoken by him, was almost enough to send her off into another crying fit, but she managed to control herself and spoke into the microphone.

"It's me, it's..."

Her voice was barely audible, even to herself.

"Who is this?"

He sounded irritated. Maybe she'd woken him up. She cleared her throat and tried again, this time managing to get her name out. The door immediately buzzed open and she gratefully stumbled inside. There she leaned against the closed door, and took a few deep breaths, willing herself to calm down. She couldn't go up there and be as uncontrolled and jumpy as she was right now. After straightening her clothes up and wiping her face, she headed for the lift and stepped inside.

As it brought her upwards, she leaned back against the wall of the lift, closing her eyes. When opening them again, she was shocked to see her bruised, tearstained face stare back at her in the mirror. For the first time in her life she was thankful for her big, bushy hair, and managed to arrange it so that it efficiently hid her hurt cheek.

The lift arrived at its destination far too quickly. Somehow she managed to get herself out of it, and then she was staring at his door. His big, wooden door with the Christmas garland still up, even though it was February. She smiled in spite of herself, remembering how she, during her last visit, had commented on this, and how he'd claimed to not yet have had time for any post-Christmas cleaning. She'd laughed and pointed out that it wouldn't take more than ten seconds to remove the garland from the front door, but he'd adorned a mock-haughty expression and said that she had no idea how busy he was these days.

Her eyes travelled to the brass sign which hung below the Christmas ornament.

R. Weasley.

It looked so classy, so neat, so unlike him. But then again, it wasn't he who had bought it. It had, along with an impractically small coffee-table, been a Christmas present from Mrs. Weasley, who thought that his apartment was in dire need of some stylish details. He'd reluctantly put it up, mainly to please his mother.

She realised that he must probably be wondering where she was, considering the amount of time it had taken her to travel four stories up. Her hand reached towards the doorbell, but before she could press it, the door opened.

The sight of him was enough to send her heart racing and make her knees weak.

He stood there, looking down at her, in pyjama pants and one of his mother's infamous knitted sweaters. Radiating warmth. Yes, he was so warm. And she couldn't touch him. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself in his arms and receive a bit of his warmth, but she couldn't.

So, there he was, no more than three feet away, and yet so utterly and painfully untouchable.

"Hello."

His voice was warm, too. Deep, safe and warm. She couldn't bring herself to answer him with her own, unsteady voice. It would ruin the moment, she felt. So instead, she nodded and smiled weakly.

He didn't ask any questions, just invited her in with a quick gesture and locked the door behind her. Then she stood there in the hallway, feeling small and stupid. She kept her head somewhat bowed, so as to hide her face. But she could feel him eyeing her.

"In a hurry to leave, were you?"

She glanced up at him and found he was looking at her feet, brow furrowed. It was only then that she realised she wasn't wearing any shoes. How could she not have noticed? Her formerly white socks were now grey and black and completely wet. The instant she saw this, her feet went ice cold. It was one of those strange psychological phenomena: her feet had felt fine until she saw what a mess they were.

She stood there staring at her feet, not able to come up with anything to say. All possible comments flying through her mind at the moment just seemed terribly ill-timed.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

She stole another glance at him and saw that he was already making for the bathroom. She didn't follow. When he noticed this, he stopped and stared at her.

"Well?"

She went back to looking at her feet.

"I..."

Her voice sounded so pathetic, especially following his. She couldn't bring herself to continue. But he was waiting.

"I can't..."

She felt so small. So stupid.

"You can't what?"

How could he sound so patient? How could he be so nice to her when she showed up in the middle of the night, looking a complete fright?

She took a deep breath, urging herself to continue.

"I can't walk around on the floor... My socks... I'd make a mess."

She felt so, so stupid. And he wasn't saying anything. A lump was forming in her throat again. Maybe she should just leave.

He let out a low laugh. When she glanced up at him, she found him looking at her with such fondness that she didn't think she'd be able to remain standing.

"Do you really think I care if you make a mess or not? Really, Hermione, don't you know me at all?"

She actually managed to smile at him then. A barely perceptible smile, but still.

"Now, come on," he said, heading towards the bathroom. This time she followed him. When they reached their destination, he held the door open for her. She kept her head bowed when slipping by him, and immediately bent over the sink, making a big show of beginning to wash her face.

"I'll see if I can find you some clothes," he said and disappeared, closing the door. She immediately straightened up, grimacing. The warm water on her bruises had stung like mad. She avoided catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, knowing that it would only make her cry again.

He was back in a couple of minutes. "You'll have to make do with these," he said, opening the door no more than five inches and throwing in a bundle of clothes. After pausing at the door for a few moments, he mumbled "I'll go make some tea," before disappearing again.

Hermione picked up the clothes and went through the items. A pair of jeans, a black top, a sweater and a pair of woolly socks. Apart from the socks, which were undoubtedly owned by Ron, judging by the size of them, and the sweater, which was another colourful creation by Mrs. Weasley, the clothes were almost her size and must've belonged to a girl. Probably Jenny, she thought to herself, remembering the loud blonde witch who'd had Ron under her whip a few months last year. She'd moved in with him, considered the place to be as good as her own and therefore done a great deal of redecorating before suddenly taking off with a Muggle drummer and leaving Ron in an emotional mess. Well, for a few days, anyway. He'd had a speedy recovery, much thanks to Hermione, Harry and Ginny, who'd convinced him that her departure was really nothing to be upset about.

Hermione quickly got out of her wet, dirty clothes and put on the new ones. She couldn't help but be a bit pleased to find that Jenny's jeans were a few sizes too big, as was the top. She put the socks on, rolling them down to avoid tripping all over herself later, then pulled the sweater over her head.

It was amazing how something as inanimate as a sweater could make her feel so safe. She pulled it up to her nose, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of Ron. Because he had a certain scent, and it made her dizzy and weak in the knees and happy and strong, all at once.

Suddenly remembering her attack of nausea earlier, she started searching for a toothbrush. She only found two, and, seeing as one of them obviously had been used to clean out something horrid, she decided that Ron probably wouldn't mind if she borrowed his.

After thoroughly brushing her teeth and rinsing out her mouth with lime-green Magic Mouthwash, she felt almost presentable, and let herself out of the bathroom.

When she got to the kitchen door, she peeked in, relieved to find him standing by the stove with his back against her. She entered, as silently as she could, but apparently not silently enough. Without turning around, he addressed her.

"Better?"

She automatically nodded, then remembered he couldn't see her.

"Yes."

He didn't say anything more. And he didn't turn around. Suddenly she felt a bit uncomfortable. She had no idea what to do now. Going up to him and engaging in pleasant smalltalk about everyday life was hardly an option, considering the present circumstances. Neither was breaking down crying right there on the kitchen floor, or saying something along the lines of "My boyfriend's beaten me. Look at my face. Aren't I hideous?". All of these options were definitely ruled out, and yet a part of Hermione felt like doing every one of them.

"Thank you," she whispered, not really having planned to say anything.

There was a pause.

"For what?"

She was sure he knew. Still, she decided to humour him.

"For letting me in. Even though I came unannounced and it's..."

"12,30. On a weeknight," he interrupted with a little laugh.

She smiled. "Right."

"You know you're always welcome here, 'Mione."

She had to swallow hard to keep herself from some crazy display of emotion. Honestly, did he want her to cry?

"So, how's Gary?"

Not good. He might be dead. I might've killed him.

Her mind started spinning again at the memory and she had to steady herself against the kitchen table. Choosing to ignore Ron's question, she gained control of her voice before speaking again.

"Thank you for not asking any questions."

"What do you mean? That was a question right there."

"You know what I mean."

She could see him nod. But he didn't say anything, not at once. The reply came after almost a minute.

"I know you'll talk to me when you're ready. If you need time, then I guess that's alright. I'm not going anywhere."

It was too much for her to take. Him standing there, back to her, being so painfully understanding, so completely nice to her, so glowing and so warm. So Ron. She knew he wanted to ask a million questions, to find out what had happened and why she was there. She knew he was curious enough to die, and still he gave her time. She wasn't even sure if she deserved it. But it was so like him, to read her like that and to see she wasn't ready, not yet.

This time she wasn't able to control the lump in her throat. It travelled upwards fast and ended as a big, dry sob which shook her body. Desperate to hide somewhere, to get warmer, to close the distance between them, she ran up to him and threw herself at his back, locking him in a tight embrace around his middle. If he was shocked, he didn't show it. She stood there hugging him tightly, pressing her healthy cheek into his back and breathing him in. He smelled just like the sweater she was wearing.

And he was warm. Even warmer than she had expected. She felt like a chunk of ice which had been thrown, or rather thrown itself into a fire, and was now caught there, unable to get out. Because she was definitely unable to get out, to let go. And he was a fire. How could she ever have been afraid of never being warm again? She should have known this was all it would take.

Ron grabbed her hands, grabbed them with his own, big warm ones, and gently began loosening their grip on him. For one horrible moment she was convinced he'd ask her to leave, but then he carefully turned around to face her, and he brought her into his arms, so that he was properly holding her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she buried her face in his chest. Hiding. Taking refuge in the only person she could ever feel this safe with. Her arms were still holding him in a fierce grip, as if she was afraid someone would come and take him away from her.

He brought one hand up to the back of her head and gently began stroking her hair. Lightly, lightly, his fingertips ran over her head. Then they travelled over her ear, slowly, tentatively, and found her hurt cheek. He moved his fingers over it. She wasn't aware of what he was doing, didn't sense how his fingers were carefully checking the side of her face, just vaguely registered a slight stinging followed by a tingling sensation. It wasn't until his fingers reached her bottom lip and found the crack in it that she froze, suddenly realising that it was too late. Now there was no turning back.

Her first thought was to leave. Just get out of there as quick as possible and start running again. She didn't want to explain to Ron, didn't want him to see what had become of her. How pathetic and weak she was.

But then she realised that there was nowhere in the world she could possibly go right now. This was the only place where she was safe.

His fingers were still on her lip, resting there lightly. Slowly, slowly, she let her arms fall from their tight grip around his middle and drew away from him. He let go of her as well, and for the first time that night she looked straight up at him, not bothering to conceal her face anymore.

He was staring down at her, and the look on his face made her stomach churn. His lips were pressed tightly together, forming a straight line. The crinkle between his eyebrows would have had her thinking he was annoyed, if it weren't for everything she could read in his eyes. She'd always joked about being able to read his eyes like the pages of a book, and this time was no exception. All sorts of emotions were evident there, among them worry and anger and sadness, but most prominent was, much to her bewilderment... betrayal.

He looked terribly hurt.

She didn't understand. What had she done? Maybe she should have gone through with her first impulse and just left. Standing there, not knowing what to do, having him looking at her like that... it was almost unbearable. She shook her head in confusion, her eyes misting up again.

"Ron, what..."

"Why have you never told me?" His voice was quiet.

She didn't know what to say, it seemed there was no possible answer. Why had she never told him? Why had she lived like this for so long, keeping it all to herself, not going to him for comfort, even if it was the only thing she'd wanted to do? Why had she not let him help her?

But she already knew the answer to those questions, and she was convinced that, if given the opportunity to go back and change things, she would still have done it all the same way. Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. Her first change would have been to never let Gary become a part of her life in the first place. But she knew that she wouldn't have told Ron anything, even if she'd gotten another chance. She couldn't have told him.

She was far too ashamed. That was the bottom line. Ashamed that it had got this far, that she had let someone damage her this much without her being able to do anything about it. She knew that Ron, even though never admittedly, thought of her as strong and independent, and she didn't want to ruin that. She wanted him to look at her the same way forever.

But of course, that was impossible now. Everything was ruined. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out, and to her horror she found that Ron had turned his back on her and gone back to staring intently at the boiling water. The back which had made her feel so safe just minutes earlier, was now shutting her out completely. She was perfectly capable of reading body language, and his was screaming "I don't want to talk to you".

Completely dumbfounded, she blinked at the tears that had gathered in her eyes, and they spilled hotly onto her cheeks. How had this happened? How had she gone so quickly from being fully protected in the arms of Ron to being shut out by him? What had she done?

It had been a mistake. She'd known it the minute she'd seen his building. Coming here had been a big mistake.

And the stupid tears wouldn't stop falling. She swiped at her eyes with the sleeves of the sweater. The scent of it seemed to somewhat clear her mind. Seized by determination, she pulled the sweater over her head and threw it on the floor.

"Thanks for the loan," she mumbled before turning on her heel and exiting the room. In a haze, she reached the hallway where she crouched down and frantically began searching the cluttered shoe rack. The sound of footsteps and the creaking of the floor told her that he had followed her.

"Hermione..."

He sounded pleading. And he should, she thought to herself. She didn't look up, didn't want to see him.

"Thanks again," she said, struggling to sound casual. "I'm sorry for the intrusion. I hope I didn't bother you too much."

She sounded harsh and she knew it. Maybe it wasn't fair to him. After all he had let her in, he had taken care of her. But his reaction to the state she was in had been so completely wrong. Not that she knew how she'd wanted him to react, she just knew it'd been wrong. And she'd never felt this small and stupid and hopeless before, so she had to keep control of her mind and body by speaking like that.

"What are you looking for?"

What was she looking for?! Wasn't it pretty bloody obvious? With a frustrated "oh!" she got up and kicked the shoe rack, which gave an almost audible groan and collapsed into a pile of broken sticks.

She turned to Ron, but not to apologise. No, she wasn't sorry anymore. She suddenly wasn't sad and she didn't feel helpless either. The only remainder of her previous state of hopelessness was the tear-stains on her cheeks. But if anything, they just made her angrier. Yes, she was terribly angry and wanted nothing more than to find her bloody shoes so she could get out of there and be by herself.

"Where are they?" she snapped. "What have you done with my shoes?"

But Ron didn't answer. He was staring at the former shoe rack – now no more than a pile of splinters – his eyebrows raised. "I think you killed it," he said.

Under any other circumstances she would have found that comment funny. Under any other circumstances she would have let all the anger and frustration roll off her like water at his words and laughed, or at least smiled.

But these weren't any other circumstances.

Right now she was just tired and angry and scared and lonely and wanted nothing more in the world at the moment than to find her bloody shoes, and he was just standing there, making stupid comments as if this was just another night for him.

The emotional roller-coaster that she'd been riding during the night now took another, sudden dive. Within seconds she was blinded by tears which started rolling down her face, seemingly as furious as the rest of her.

"Do you think this is funny?!" She was practically screaming but couldn't seem to care. Her fists were clenched and her whole body was shaking with rage. "Is this just a big joke to you?"

He stared at her, mouth open and wide-eyed, as she stomped up to the door and placed a hand on the handle. She turned to him again, boiling inside.

"Now, are you going to give me my shoes or do I have to leave without them?"

Her voice was high-pitched and quavering, but it couldn't be helped. She scowled at him through her tears, with trembling chin, knowing she must look very much like a four-year-old.

"Well?" she sniffed, attempting to dry her eyes with her hands. He was staring at her, with a – for once – uninterpretable look in his eyes, but she refused to look away.

"Well?" she repeated, but much more weakly. His intense eyes were getting to her. She was feeling slightly dizzy and her hysterical crying had given her a headache.

He smiled at her, then. A tiny, sad smile.

"You weren't wearing any shoes, 'Mione."

Her mouth fell open and the room started spinning. Of course she hadn't been wearing any shoes. How could she have forgotten? How could she not have remembered the state her feet had been in when she arrived?

She found herself shaking her head in disbelief. Why couldn't she seem to think straight? Had she completely lost her mind?

"I..." she began, but it was all she could get out. She looked up at Ron and shook her head again, her face crumpling up.

"I don't know what to do," she sobbed, raising her hands in a motion of defeat.

He reached her in a split second, enveloping her in his long arms. But this time she didn't even give thought to his warmth or his scent or their closeness, she just clung on for dear life. It was all she could do to keep her knees from buckling.

"I don't know what to do," she repeated in a muffled voice, her face buried in his chest. As an answer he reached behind his back and took both her hands in his, bringing them to his chest.

"I need you to tell me what's happened," he said, looking her straight in the eye. "Do you think you can manage?"

Every fibre of her being wanted to say no, say she wasn't ready, but there was something in his pleading, earnest look that forced her to nod. It wouldn't be easy, she knew that, but maybe it was all for the best. Maybe it would help, sharing it all with someone.

With one hand on her back he gently but firmly ushered her into the living room. There he sat her down on the sofa.

"Now," he said, "I'm just going to go finish making the tea. It won't take a minute. Don't you go running off now, all right?"

He attempted a grin, but it was strained and unbalanced and looked completely unfitting on such an uneasy facial expression. She tried desperately to smile back, but it was impossible. All the smiles had fallen off her at some time during the night.

"I won't," she said, trying to sound as assuring as possible. He eyed her sceptically. It was clear that he didn't trust her not to bolt.

"I won't," she repeated, this time with more force, and a hint of offence. It was a tone with which he was familiar, and he visibly relaxed. She was rewarded with an honest grin from him.

"Had to make sure," he excused himself before leaving for the kitchen.

Hermione pulled her legs up on the sofa, resting her chin on her knees. It was a strange sofa, long and broad and with a chequered blue and green cover. She'd never been at a dinner party here without hearing somebody commenting on it, and she herself had questioned Ron's judgement when she'd first seen it. Her first thought had been that it was a hideous creation, and she'd told him as much. But Ron had just smiled and patted the sofa, looking like a proud father. "I know it's awful," he'd said. "Even the shop-keeper tried to talk me out of buying it, and that says something." He'd paused, hand resting on the armrest, before continuing. "But I just couldn't leave it there. I figured that if I didn't buy it, then nobody else would either, and the thought of it standing there in the shop all alone..." He'd shrugged. "I don't know. But I do know that if I were a sofa, and looked like that, then I'd wish for someone to look beyond my godawful exterior and take time to notice my wonderful personality."

And after having heard those words Hermione could do little but love the poor, tacky sofa.

Ron returned to the living room then, carrying two mugs of steaming tea. She gratefully accepted one, and cradled it in her hands. It was too hot to drink yet, so she sat holding it and breathing in the scent.

"It's cloudberry and sage," he informed her.

She studied the tea closer. "That's awfully brave of you," she said.

"Don't know about that. I just wanted something classy, so I went for the one containing things I hadn't heard of."

She snorted at that and blew carefully into the cup, so as to cool its contents. Then she put her lips to the brim and sipped the tea.

"How was it?" he asked.

She stared at him, with an "Honestly, Ron" look on her face.

"You mean you've never tried it yourself?"

"You kidding?" he said with a grin. "As if I'd ever taste anything out of a bag labelled 'Cloudberry and sage'. They sound like the main ingredients of some evil sleeping draught."

On reflex, she rolled her eyes and shook her head. She even surprised herself with a small smile. For a moment it felt as if everything was the same as it'd always been, with her and Ron bickering playfully about petty things. And then she remembered, how things weren't the same at all anymore and how irreversible the events of the night were. Her hands started shaking so violently she had to put her cup down on the coffee-table. Then she leaned back and sighed, closing her eyes. None of them said anything for quite a while. She could feel him watching her, his gaze bore into her very core, and she felt a sudden, uncontrollable urge to meet his eyes. Turning her head she looked up into his face and her eyes locked with his. The intensity she found there made her heart speed up and a tight knot formed in her stomach. He was staring her dead in the eye, an unfamiliar and uninterpretable look on his face. She felt as if she was supposed to understand what his eyes were telling her, but she didn't. She was about to open her mouth and ask him right out what it was he was trying to say, when he spoke.

"Just let me get to him," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I don't care about my wand, I don't need it. I'll kill him with my bare hands."

There was something very familiar about those words... And she remembered. Harry had told her what Ron had said that time in second year at Hogwarts, when Malfoy had said it was too bad she hadn't died from meeting the basilisk. She swallowed hard, torn between telling him off for saying such an irrational thing, and throwing her arms around him and thanking him for always standing up for her, for always, always taking care of her.

She looked away. "Ron..."

"No, don't 'Ron' me," he interrupted. "If I ever see him again, I bloody well will kill him. And that's not a threat, that's a promise."

She shook her head. "You couldn't kill him," she said.

"Believe me, I could."

She turned and looked at him again. "No, believe me. You couldn't."

He clearly didn't understand. "'Mione, what are you talking about?"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. In a tiny, almost inaudible voice she spoke.

"You couldn't possibly kill him, because most likely he's already dead."

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A/N: End of chapter one. This story won't consist of all too many chapters, maybe two or three more, but I felt it would be too long if it was all just one part. Wouldn't want to bore you!