Ron's POV

As I watch Harry walk into the Muggle bar that's becoming my safe haven, I immediately think he's here to gloat. Somehow, he knows that I'm in a shit mood and that things are going badly between me and Hermione. Then, I realize it's just my drunkenness making me paranoid.

No one knows what's going on with Hermione—nights when she'd wake up crying for no reason; evenings when she'd come home from work, a dead look in her eyes; mornings when she'd stay in bed, curled up, until I left for work. I feel as if I'm losing her.

So, after a brief moment of annoyance, I am relieved by Harry's appearance, a familiar face. Not that it's a happy face—he's never happy these days, and of course I know why—but he is my friend. Despite everything that happened since the War ended, he is still my best friend. I hope he still thinks of me that way.

"Alright, Ron?" It's a normal greeting, something blokes say to each other, not expecting any sort of response. So I'm sitting here, mortified at myself for even wanting to tell him what's wrong. But I hold back. I take a deliberate, slow sip of my beer, then set it down, like I'm thinking real hard about my words, when really, I already know the things I want to say to Harry.

"Dean said you were here."

Dean's my drinking buddy. Not that we get sloshed or anything. But I enjoy our conversations, and he's a joker. But today, he had something else to do. I guess he was worried about me; that explains Harry's appearance. For him to go to Harry says a lot of things.

I say: "It's Hermione."

I watch for his reaction—a sign that he doesn't want to hear anything about her—good or bad. But he stares at me dead on, silent. "She's been . . . depressed, I think."

"That doesn't sound like her," he replies, staring thoughtfully at the beer that the bartender slides over to him.

"Yeah. I'm not sure what's happening. A few months ago, everything seemed fine. But lately … lately, it's hard to reach her."

"Have you talked to her?"

"Tried to, but then she always puts on that everything is fine look, you know when—" I stop explaining myself. One, he knows what I'm talking about. Two, because it's the mask that he has on all the time now. I know. No one else is aware-not even Hermione, which I know because I would have heard about it by now-but I know the truth. I chug the rest of my beer, then raise my finger for another one. The bartender nods at me.

"Maybe it's the stress from getting things ready for the wedding." He slides his bottle back and forth between his hands. My vision's getting a bit hazy, but I register the thoughtful expression on his face.

"She knows my mum could handle that," I tell him. "That's not it. I don't know what to do. Even when we have sex, it's not the same. As if—"

"Ron," Harry warns me, the beer coming to a halt, his grip on it tight. His face is turned away; I know it's not because he wants to spy on the young couple snogging next to us. What I just said hits me. My tongue feels loose. There are certain things Harry and I cannot talk about now. I sip the foam from my glass to waste away the awkward silence, but it stays. It'll never go away, I suppose, especially when the silence is the product of conversations about Hermione.

I hear him sigh. I know he's trying to calm himself down, and I wait for him. I expect he'll have the answers. He always knows what's right when it comes to Hermione. I can't help but feel a mix of anger and gratitude towards him. It's odd for me to feel this way, given the circumstances. I'm not ready to analyze what that means exactly.

"If you want to lift her spirits a bit, take her out somewhere distracting." He sounds tired, and I look at him, at my oldest friend—and my enemy, in a sense. A truth we both acknowledge, but never say, because it'll ruin everything for us. This is our silent pact that was made the one day when everything was supposed to fall neatly into place. "Muggle London, maybe. It always made her feel better, when she and I were on the run, when we—" He stops, just as I expect him to. "It's just a suggestion. Take it or leave it."

Harry gets up abruptly, like he's just given up. On me. On our ruse that's been going on. He's not even half-way done with this drink.

He slaps down a few pounds and nods to the bartender. "I'll see you on Sunday for dinner," he tells me.

I'm not surprised when he ignores my raised hand as a goodbye.