17: Rung Eight - Her

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17: Rung Eight – Her

June 30th, 7:35 pm

Standing in a corner of Grimmauld Place's decorated, and therefore marginally less-dreary, drawing room, I watch Ron.

He and Ginny regale a group with feats of Quidditch daring-do. The finishing of the current anecdote causes a wave of laughter. He's in his element.

Although reminiscent of last year's party, it's in sharp contrast to two years ago.

At the first Victory Celebration, Ron gave a simple, yet heart-felt, toast to Harry that left him quietly sobbing. My own heart hurting, I hugged him to me and stroked his hair before leading him out to the Burrow's garden to sit quietly for a bit. We cried and talked and eventually even laughed as we recalled some of our barmier antics as a trio.

I reveled in the comfort of holding a warm body – a body belonging to someone I cared for, someone who understood.

When I finally shifted in preparation to stand, Ron's arms tightened around me in protest. "Mione."

"Come," I replied. Standing, I took his hand and Apparated us to the landing outside my flat.

By the time we got inside and to the bedroom, we were undressed. Leaving the room faintly lit by moonlight, we made love a little clumsily yet tenderly.

He cried a little after and whispered, "I just miss him so much. He was my best mate, and ..."

"I know. He was mine, too. But we've still got each other."

His hand rose and wiped away tears I hadn't even realized were bathing my cheeks. "Yes. Yes, we do."

We were inseparable that first summer of our relationship. It seemed that if the two of us were together, we could keep Harry alive somehow. I'd catch a glimpse of Ron out of the corner of my eye and automatically assume Harry would be next. Being together made it feel as if the possibility of Harry still existed.

It helped each of us.

But it's not enough to be going on with.

I sigh.

Even if there weren't the complication of Severus.

Gathering my fabled Gryffindor courage, I walk over. "Ron, can I see you privately for a moment?"

He turns to me with a big grin. "Sure, Mione. My bedroom or yours?"

Catcalls follow us as we leave the room, and someone, perhaps Dean, calls out, "Ron, you jammy git. She can't even wait a few hours to get her hands on you."

I grind my teeth to keep from grimacing as Ron turns to wave acknowledgement of their admiration.

I'm leading so that I don't have to look at him as we walk down the hallway to enter what used to be my room. For all of his bravado in the drawing room, I can't subject Ron to the memories of the room he shared with Harry.

Sitting on the bed, Ron grins leeringly and asks, "So, Mione, what is it you want?"

Circe – what did George put in the punch this year?

I only hope it doesn't make things even worse.

Casting a quick Muffliato and ward on the door, I pocket my wand and sit down as well, but with some distance between us. Avoiding his gaze, I focus on my clenched hands where they rest on my lap.

"Ron, I've been thinking." My voice breaks. I clear my throat and continue quietly. "I've been thinking that things between us aren't as good as they should be for a marriage."

He's silent, and my peripheral vision shows him to be completely still.

"I know it's hard to talk about, but you must have felt it too." With the hardest part over, my voice returns to almost normal. "All of those awkward conversations, the bickering about nothing, the times when we don't seem able to even begin a conversation, the ..."

Goddess, I can't bring up the sex – that would be cruel.

He doesn't say anything, and I can't stand the silence, so I continue. "I've been feeling this way for a while, and –"

"How long?" His voice is so quiet, I'm not sure I heard him correctly.

"What?"

"How long?" This is louder but strained.

"Since Cornwall."

No reaction.

"I'm sorry, Ron." I reach out to touch his hand, but he jerks it away and leaps from the bed so forcefully the entire frame shakes.

Now he's yelling and pacing. "I could give a sweet fuck all if you're sorry, Hermione. How could you do this to me?" His hand rips at his hair.

It's my turn to remain silent.

"What?" He gives a viscous hand chop after every phrase. "You can't be arsed to tell the bloke you're shagging, the bloke you're engaged to, the bloke you say you love that you don't actually want to be with him?" His wild gesticulations, usually used to express happy excitement, serve equally well to punctuate anger.

"I do love you, Ron. I do. It's just ..."

"It's just what, Hermione?"

I don't know what to say that won't hurt him even more. It would be nasty to tell him the full truth, to tell him about the boredom.

"How could you say you'd marry me if you felt this way?"

This bit makes me angry, and I stand to place myself directly in front of him. "How could I not? It's not as if you left me a whole lot of choice, now is it, Ronald? You paraded your proposal in front of almost everyone we know! Yes, I had doubts then, but I felt trapped into accepting. You had never even talked about marriage with me – I had no idea what you were planning."

"Oh, that's rich!" He snorts and waves a hand dismissively at me. "Mum had been buying you magazines and showing you dresses and all kinds of wedding-type things for months."

"Yes, Ronald. Molly did do all of that. But you didn't, and it was you I needed to hear it from." I've been trying to keep both hands at my sides but find I'm pointing at him; I drop my right arm and clutch at the side seams of my skirt. "I thought we were thinking the same thing – humor the parents and keep things on an even keel. I thought I had time to figure things out, to figure us out."

He runs a hand through his hair. "And directly after? Why didn't you say something then?"

"I was overwhelmed, all right. Overwhelmed!" My hands once again escape my control and fly up into the air. "I'd just started at Hogwarts, it was my first time carrying a full teaching load, and I was trying to get some publishable research done. By the time I came up for air, Molly had so much of the wedding planned that I felt more trapped than ever. The longer it went on, the harder it was to say anything. Until ..." My hands drop, and I turn slightly away from him.

"Until what, Hermione?" His voice burns with rage. "Is it another bloke?"

Whirling to face him, I yell, "Another bloke? Have you not heard anything I've just said? When would I have time for another bloke?"

His voice turns plaintive as his hands reach out to me. "Well then, what is it? I can't get my head 'round this. You say you love me. What is it we can't work out?"

All of the anger drains from my voice, leaving it as hollow as I now feel. "I do love you, Ron. But not enough."

"Not enough! Not enough for what? What the bloody hell are you on about?" He's angry again.

I meet his eyes. "Enough for me, Ron." My voice drops to a whisper. "I don't love you enough for me."

He turns quickly away so that I can't see his face, but his shoulders tremble.

I walk forward awkwardly, a hand stretched towards him, wanting to give him comfort. As soon as I touch his back, his trembling turns to shudders and his sobs become audible.

Without turning, he chokes out, "Go, just go."

My arm drops, and my vision blurs. "Ron –"

"Damn it, Hermione! Leave."

I force my hand to hold the wand steady enough to cast Finite Incantatem on the door. A door that slams closed behind me.

Thankfully, the hallway and stairs are shadowy even with the additional party lighting, and I'm able to make it out the door without seeing anyone.

A fine, drizzly mist darkens the already overcast evening and coats my face with a relieving coolness as I descend the front steps and move to lean against the railings in front of number eleven.

I did it. I'm free.