21: A Half-Step between Rungs Nine and Ten

Disclaimer: Not mine. No money. Special thanks go to JKR for sanctioning HP fanfic.

Gobs of thanks go to my beta Southern Witch 69 and to my Brit-picker the amazing Saracen77.

21: A Half-Step between Rungs Nine and Ten

August 30th, 7:05 pm

I set two pints of bitter on the corner table of the Three Broomsticks and settle across from her. "Ginny, I can't thank you enough for answering my owl and agreeing to meet me." Pausing for a moment, I continue quickly. "Tell me truly – how is he?"

She sighs. "He's ... he's a bit better ... now."

"Now?"

"Well, the first two weeks he simply sat in the corner of his sitting room in his ratty Chudley Cannon pyjamas and refused to move except to go to work. Even then, Tonks said he was so oblivious to his surroundings that she had to put him on desk duty to keep him from accidentally doing himself an injury."

Oh, Ron.

I can think of nothing to say and gesture for her to continue.

"I think it's the first time I've ever seen him refuse food. Mum was hysterical."

"Does ..." I clear my throat and start again. "Does Molly hate me?"

Squirming uncomfortably, she glances quickly away before her eyes return to meet mine and her chin raises. "Truth be told, I think we all did at first."

Tears form in my eyes, and I try to contain them by blinking rapidly. Shaky hands are easier to hide – I slip them into my lap, and my left one buries itself in my pocket.

"It was just such a shock. One minute we're all planning your wedding and the next Ron is crying his eyes out at the Victory Celebration." She pauses, and the defiant look on her face fades. "But then..."

"Yes?" My voice sounds painfully hopeful.

"Then Bill told Ron about his first love – a Yank he'd worked with in Egypt – Jaqui. They'd gone out for seven months, and he'd been completely smitten, but she threw him over for her ex when she returned to the States. Bill went on and on about how he'd thought he'd never love again, never trust again – all that rot. And then he told Ron about meeting Fleur and how smashing it is, how right it is – that it's even better than it ever would have been with Jaqui."

I wait a few moments before prompting, "And?"

"And things got better after that. He began eating, visiting the Burrow on weekends, going down the pub with George of an evening."

I exhale in relief. "Circe, that's good to hear, Ginny. You have no idea how worried I've been. I know it may not seem like it now, but I do care for Ron. I never wanted things to end as badly as they did. I just couldn't ... I couldn't ..."

"I understand, Mione, really I do. That's why I came tonight. Once I got over my initial anger, I was able to see that it was similar to what I went through with Colin. I felt horrible when I broke it off with him, and I know I hurt him, but I had to do it."

We're both silent for a bit, sipping at our hither-to-now-ignored pints and looking around awkwardly.

Putting down my glass, I start again. "And what about the rest of the family – how do they feel now?"

"Percy is staying out of it, but George and Bill have both been able to get Ron to admit that not everything was perfect between the two of you. It's been good for everyone in the family to hear. Dad was never angry with you – only sad. But Mum ... well, she's going to take some time, if she ever comes around. I'm sorry, Mione."

A few tears reemerge to escape and slip down my cheeks. I brush them away quickly. "It's all right, Ginny. It's to be expected, really."

Sipping our drinks, we sit in a more comfortable silence than previously.

Do it, Granger.

I take a deep breath. "Do you think he'd want the ring back?" I pull it out of my left pocket, where I've been playing with it for the last few minutes, and place it on the table between us.

"Oh, Mione. I don't think that's such a good idea. It's still too fresh for him – it would only stir it all up again."

"Then how about this? You take the ring and sell it, then use the money to buy him something, something he really wants. Maybe a new broom ... or a broom-repair kit and one of those smart Muggle dart boards he went on about last summer."

She stares at the ring. "I don't know how I'd explain the money."

"Tell him that you, Bill, and George scraped together to get him a prezzie to cheer him. Later on, when you think he'd be all right with hearing it, you can tell him where it actually came from."

Still looking hesitant, she remains silent.

"It is his money, after all," I remind her.

"I'll talk to the lads and see what they say." Sliding the ring across the table, she places it quickly in a pocket.

Thank the goddess!

She meets my happy smile with a look of determination. "But if he's never going to be all right with it, he'll never know it came from you."

My smile shifts to wryness. "Fair enough." I toast her with my glass before taking a large swallow. "Fair enough."

~~~

August 30th, 8:05 pm

It has been two months.

Two months since Minerva took me to task for avoiding the psychological quagmire of my past.

Two months of pondering the implications of emotionally attaching myself to someone.

Two months of attempting to force myself to confront him.

Standing in front of the Gargoyle, I once again hesitate. It has nothing to do with lacking the password – Minerva has sent an owl post containing the updated phrase every Monday for the past seven weeks.

Come on, old man – screw your courage to the sticking-place.

"The Second Sex." My voice sounds rough to my ears, but the statuary reacts nonetheless.

For the first time in memory, I ride the staircase to the top without aiding my progress by impatiently climbing the moving steps.

The eyes of the griffin doorknocker widen as they see me, and the heavy oak door swings open before I even lay a hand upon it.

Fortunately, the room that greets me evinces differences – even the superficial ones are welcome. While its dimensions and circular shape remain the same, Minerva's tastes in decoration vary from the previous occupant's. Gone are the smoking, whirling apparatuses of no obvious use; a statue of Dorcus Wellbeloved inhabits their place. Tartan throws decorate the armchairs, and heavy velvet drapes cover the windows. The desk also happens to be neater than I have ever seen it when the office is occupied by a true Head Professor – one would have no idea that term begins only two days hence.

All such details keep me temporarily occupied and provide a focus for my sight, so that it in no way directly intersects with the portraits lining the walls.

The vaunted Gryffindor bravery appears somewhat admirable at this point in time, does it not?

The taunt has the desired effect – the effect such gibes always seem to have upon me – and I raise my eyes with sneer firmly in place.

Gazing straight ahead, the portrait I encounter is empty. Displacing my eyes to the left confirms that this is the case for the other frames along this wall as well. I turn slowly, haltingly towards the right until a portrait filled with presence comes into view.

He has waited for me to look at him before speaking. "Severus." Pushing visibly against the front of the canvas, his healthy hand reaches towards me.

Albus!

My legs unhinge. I find myself inexplicably kneeling on the rug and struggling for breath as my throat constricts.

I claw open my collar. The vaguely rational part of my mind whispers that such an action is for naught, that this is a purely psychosomatic reaction, after all.

My voice refuses to come, yet I attempt to force its use. A pain-racked croak is all that emerges.

Albus.

My stomach convulses in nausea as my viscera twist under an onslaught of intense pain. I fall forward onto my hands, continuing to gasp for breath.

Lifting my head, I look towards him once more. His blue eyes seem even more watery than usual, and it takes me untold moments to determine that this is due to a blurring of my own vision instead of a fault of the portrait painter.

Albus...

"My dear boy. My poor, dear boy."

His voice seems to come from a great distance, and my mind grasps naught but occasional phrases in between belabored pants. Yet these nonetheless coalesce into a somewhat coherent whole: "Severus, please ... you mustn't ... understand that I never ... can you ... Severus, my dear boy ... wrong ... shoulder such a great burden ... no one ... Severus ... forgive ..."

My breathing calms as his words continue to wash over me, and I settle back upon my heels while gazing upon him. For the first time in years, even if but weakly, I am able to vocalize his name.

"Albus."

AN: Severus quotes Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth: "But screw your courage to the sticking-place, / And we'll not fail" (Macbeth I, vii, 60-1). The Second Sex is Muggle Simone de Beauvoir's foundational feminist text on the social construction of female gender roles.