August 2001
Hermione and Ron decided to walk back to Hermione's flat from Harry's house. It was a nice night and Hermione said she wanted some air. Since she lived over two miles from Grimmauld Place, they never walked the whole way. Instead, they Apparated from Harry's doorstep to a dark alley near one of Hermione's favorite cafés. From there, it was only a mile back to her flat. Hermione shrunk their robes and stuffed them in her purse, then linked her arm with Ron's as they walked.
She was quiet, which wasn't entirely out of the ordinary. She disappeared into her head sometimes, especially when she was mulling something over. But now, Ron really needed her to work through whatever she was working through out loud. With him. Her fiancé. Ron had had to remind himself several times tonight that he was her fiancé, despite the fact that she'd spent the last few weeks pretending otherwise.
He hated it. Hated this resurgence of insecurities he'd thought were in his past. Hated that way he'd always compared himself to Harry. He'd got past that after the war, for the most part. After Harry had emerged from the forest in Hagrid's arms, looking dead. After he'd dueled Voldemort and won. After he'd spent the next year finally having to face the losses. Ron didn't want to be Harry Potter in any of those moments. But now, the jealousy had come back suddenly and forcefully, hitting Ron like a tidal wave.
He turned to look at Hermione and could tell her mind was racing. "Um—are you—?" He'd started talking without the end in mind. It was a habit of his that annoyed Hermione, but he couldn't help it. He was nervous as hell, though not entirely sure why.
She turned her head to look at him. "What?"
"Are you worried about your job? I mean, uh, what you're going to do next?"
"Oh, a little."
"Yeah. Makes sense. You loved that job, didn't you?"
"Yes," she said sadly, focusing ahead again. "I did."
They were quiet for a few more moments. "Have you thought about what you want to do?" Ron asked.
Hermione shrugged. "Kind of. What do you think?"
"Oh…uh…" His brow furrowed as he considered her question. "Maybe something with books? Like… editing or… curating things for a bookstore? Is that a job?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes. It is. But … what should I look for in a job?" She turned to face him again, her eyes intense. "What—what do you think?"
He could tell his answer was important to her, so considered for several moments before saying, "You're brilliant, yeah? I think you should get a job where you can use that giant brain of yours and everything you studied in school. So—like—being an Unspeakable was sort of perfect since they research all sorts of things. I reckon you should look for something else like that."
"Yeah," she sighed.
Ron frowned. She'd disappeared back into her mind and, once again, hadn't taken him with her. He wanted so badly to know what she was thinking. He'd encountered uncooperative witnesses who gave more away than she did.
He wanted to ask her a thousand questions, but wasn't sure where to start. He wanted to know more about her job. Had she known from the beginning that she'd lose her job, or had she realized it later on, when it was too late to do anything about it? He wanted to know more about Neville and how he'd managed to win the war. He wanted to know if she knew anything about the other Ron in that world. Was he still friends with the engaged Harry and Hermione? Had the other Ron and the other Hermione dated?
But above all else, he wanted to know what had happened between her and Harry. How often had Harry touched her? A few times a day, to appease his parents, or were they traipsing across the bloody globe hand in hand? He said he'd kissed her a few times. How many, exactly? And where? On the cheek? On the lips? Had they snogged?
And the bed… Had they slept on either end with a large space between them or had Hermione curled up into Harry that way she liked to do with Ron, especially on the nights she had a nightmare. Had she had any nightmares on the trip? Had Harry? Had they turned to each other for comfort?
Ron couldn't decide how to formulate these concerns into a question without coming across as a jealous prick who didn't trust his fiancée, but he had to know. Without the details, he was picturing the worst: Hermione tucked under Harry's arm as they watched dragons fly through the sky, Hermione nuzzling her face into Harry's neck as the emotions from the Tear in the Veil overwhelmed her, their bodies pressed against each other as they shared a broom, the two of them waking up in a tangle of limbs, Hermione burying her hands in Harry's hair as they snogged.
"How many times did you kiss him?" he asked abruptly, while Hermione asked at the same time, in a more reasonable tone, "How was your meeting with the informant?"
Ron stopped in the middle of the pavement. "Oh, uh, you remembered that?" Shit. She was being sweet and he was being a jealous idiot. A warm blush crept up Ron's neck. "It was good. Thanks. And sorry about—it's not that I don't trust—my mind just—"
"Three," she said softly, her eyes wide and pleading.
A Muggle man around their age shoved passed them, nearly knocking Ron over. Ron took Hermione's elbow and moved them to the edge of the pavement, against a dark brick building. "Three?"
Hermione bit her lip as she leaned against the side of the building. "Quick pecks on the cheek or the side of a mouth, I lost count of those but they weren't, um, excessive." She dropped his gaze and focused down on their feet. Ron could feel her shaking in his grasp. "But kisses, real kisses, there were three."
Three. Ron wasn't sure if this was a lot or a little. Frankly, anything more than zero was too much. They shouldn't have fucking kissed! They should have made up an excuse—maybe pretended to be in a row. Hermione was brilliant. She could have come up with something. If she wanted to, a voice said in the back of his mind.
He clenched his fists at his sides.
Hermione's shoulders twitched and Ron saw a few tears splash onto the ground. His heart shattered. He squeezed his fists harder. So hard, he thought his hands would be sore in the morning.
"You have more to tell me, don't you?" It was a testament to how much he loved her that his tone came out gentle, since he could feel the rage bubbling up inside.
She nodded, then slowly tilted her head back up. Her lovely brown eyes were lined with tears. It was cruel, how beautiful she looked. Her hair was pulled up in a high bun, which was how she usually wore it for work, but several curls had escaped and were framing her face. Her lips were full and darker than usual, since she'd been biting them nervously all night, and her eyes were wide and shining in the light from the streetlamps.
For the first moment since they'd become engaged, Ron got the feeling that she wasn't his. An overwhelming sense of longing gripped him and he had to work harder than normal to push air in and out of his lungs. He reached out and grazed his fingertips along her cheek. When she didn't flinch, the tightness in his chest lifted slightly. It wasn't over. He was still allowed to touch her. She was still his. For now, that dark voice in his mind added.
They were silent the rest of the way to Hermione's flat. Once inside, Hermione took their robes out of her bag and returned them to their normal sizes before hanging them in the hall closet. She worked slowly, trying to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.
It was time to end things with Ron. She hadn't known back in the other world what she was going to do. She knew she loved Harry and Ron and had resolved to wait and see how she felt when she saw Ron again. And then, exactly two seconds after she hugged him, she knew. She was in the wrong arms. She'd clung to him tighter, trying to pull out the thing that was missing in their embrace, but it wasn't there. And honestly, she hadn't been surprised.
And now, she had to tell him. Ron was upset at the thought of her and Harry kissing, which was nothing compared to the rest of it. How was she supposed to explain that it wasn't the colliding of lips and skin Ron should be concerned about, but the touching of souls?
"I know soulmates exist, because you're mine."
She was overcome with a wave of sorrow and felt tears well behind her eyes. But she couldn't lose it right now. This was a delicate situation and she needed to proceed with caution. Why hadn't she let herself consider this possibility before now? She could have prepared something.
"Hermione?" Ron was standing in the hall, eyeing her warily.
She forced a weak smile onto her face and motioned toward the couch as her mind raced. She couldn't let Ron blame Harry. He would, of course, but he'd be wrong. Because it was about Harry, but it wasn't. Yes, Harry was better for her and yes, she loved him more than she loved Ron, but the main problem was that there were gaps in her relationship with Ron—large ones. And the fact that Harry could fill them was irrelevant, to an extent. She needed Ron to see that. Otherwise, he'd never forgive Harry and then Harry, well, he'd never forgive her.
Hermione sat on the couch while Ron sat on the coffee table opposite her, framing her legs with his longer ones before gently placing his hands on her knees.
"What do you want to tell me?" he asked. He employed the indifference he'd learned to tap into during Auror training to keep from completely panicking as she blinked quickly to hold back tears.
She placed her hands on top of his and asked softly, "What do you love about me?"
"What? You think I don't love you?"
"I know you love me. I just want to know why."
Ron let out a large exhale. He had a feeling that no matter what he said, it wasn't going to make a difference, but he tried anyway. "You're brilliant, obviously. Beautiful, impressive as hell—scary, more like." He gave her a small smile and squeezed her knee. "What do you love about me?"
She returned his smile, but it was so sad, it looked more like a grimace. "I love how loyal you are. And brave. Funny and caring. But—"
"Never a good word, especially not in this context," he quipped.
Her grimace deepened. "I think we're missing the little things."
"What?"
She let out a long sigh. "I love you. I love who you are—your character—but not how you look when you sleep. It's not that I dislike how you look in your sleep I've just … never noticed. And not the way your voice ticks up when you're nervous or all the different colors your eyes become, and what they mean. Those aren't things I've ever stopped to consider and I think—I think it may be the same for you. I think we love each other, generally, but are missing all the details."
"What are you saying?"
She stayed quiet and resumed biting her lip.
"Tell me," he pressed.
"In the other world, I saw another way it could have gone. I've thought, this whole time, that this was the only way and I—I was wrong."
"You're talking about Harry? The other way … that's you marrying Harry, right? He's the one who looks a certain way when he sleeps and has different colored eyes?"
She leaned forward and clutched his hands. "Forget about Harry. Just consider us. I'm saying—I'm saying that when I was in that other world, and I saw the other Hermione's life I—I wanted something else."
"Some-one else," he corrected as that fire blazed in his chest again.
"Either way. You deserve better than that. You deserve someone who wants you—without any doubts."
"It's normal to doubt. I have doubts, too."
"I don't think it is. James and Lily, they never doubted. As soon as they decided to be together, that was it—they both knew it was right. We haven't been like that. We've been nervous from the start."
Ron ripped his hands out from under hers and shifted away, so he was no longer sitting directly across from her. "So, what? You go on this trip and now you're done and you're trying to tell me it has nothing to do with Harry? Don't lie, Hermione. This is about Harry. It's always about Harry for you, isn't it?!"
"Maybe it is about Harry. Maybe it always has been. Tell me, Ron, why did you want me? Was it because of me? Or was it because you thought I was Harry's? Because the other Ron—he didn't want Hermione. All three of them were still friends but in that world, where Harry was just a normal kid, not the Chosen One, Ron never showed an interest in Hermione."
"I don't know that Ron!" he shouted back at her. "Are you seriously holding me accountable for his actions? That's mental!"
Hermione set her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Stop talking in circles and tell me straight, Hermione. You love Harry! You found this alternate world and what did you do? Broke every rule in your department to bring Harry! Risked a job you love for him! You didn't even come tell me first! And then you got roped into staying for two weeks longer than you wanted, because we all know how easy it is to convince you to do something you don't want to.
"Then, you had to pretend to be engaged to Harry. What a big imposition. You had to pretend to be a couple, there was no way around it, and now you're hugging, snogging, who knows what else? Then, you have the nerve to come back and try to convince me there are problems in our relationship?! How thick do you think I am?!"
"I'm sorry, Ron. I—"
"Oh great, you're sorry. That makes everything better," he snapped.
She just dropped her head into her hands.
Ron stood and started pacing the room. She wasn't denying it. He was waiting for her to say something—anything to fix this, but she was just crying into her hands.
"Blimey, Hermione! Fuck! So, that's what happened? You cheated? That's why you're crying?"
She stayed quiet. This was worse than all the interrogations he'd been a part of combined. He wanted to shake her, force Veritaserum down her throat—anything to get her to tell him what she was thinking.
"It was more than three kisses," he pressed. "You cheated. You said as much. You fucking forgot about me and Ginny and—and—and what? Did you shag him? Is that the big thing you don't want to tell me?"
"No," she said, finally dropping her hands from her face. "Of course not."
"Then what is it?! What aren't you telling me?"
"Harry fell in love with me!" she shouted back at him, getting to her feet. "He didn't mean to, it just—happened."
"What?" Relief coursed through Ron. They hadn't shagged? Harry had simply realized he loved her? And she hadn't said she loved him back. That was something, wasn't it?
"Somewhere along the way he realized he didn't want to be with Ginny anymore. He said he wanted me and—"
He crossed the room and stopped in front of her. "You didn't shag?"
"No."
Ron shook his head as his mind caught up with his feelings. She was in the process of breaking up with him. She'd been trying to convince him their relationship was bad. Couple that, with this information about Harry...
"So, he spent the whole trip telling you how much he loved you and then … what? You made a plan to break up with me and Ginny once you were back? Why didn't you just do it over dinner? More efficient that way."
"Ron, it wasn't like that." She grabbed the sides of his arms. "Listen, okay?"
Ron scoffed. She was finally ready to talk, but he couldn't hear it. He was shaking with barely suppressed rage as he thought of Harry telling Hermione that he loved her, that he wanted to be with her, that she should leave Ron for him.
"I don't want the details," he seethed. "Just—what is this? Is it over? Are you choosing him?"
"It's not like that, Ron."
"Just answer me!" He tore out of her grasp. "Do you want to be with him or me?!"
"You and I aren't right for each other! We're always at odds. You're always explaining your side of things and I'm explaining my side and we fight so hard to find a compromise and it's hard. It's harder than it should be. You have to see that. We both deserve better."
"Like Harry," he grumbled.
She continued as if she hadn't heard him. "You deserve someone who understands you and I deserve someone who understands me and we're not those people to each other."
"But Harry is that person."
"This isn't about Harry!"
"Then tell me you don't love him back! Tell me you're not going to run into his arms once you leave me!"
"This is about us. Can you stop shouting about Harry for two seconds and listen to me?!"
Ron glared at her for several seconds, breathing heavily, then turned and marched to the hall. He threw the closet door open and ripped his robes off the hanger. He didn't bother trying to put them on. He was too angry for that level of coordination.
Hermione came to stand in front of him, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
"I'm done," he said roughly. "This is over, right? Nothing I can say to change your mind?"
"Would you … if there was?" she whispered.
Just then, the tears Ron had been holding back began to fall, heavily, stinging his flushed face on the way down. "Don't," he said. The word came sounding like a strangled wail. "Don't do that. This wasn't fucking broken! We were fine. You broke this—not me."
Hermione reached for him but he backed away, out of her grasp.
"Ron, wait—"
He disapparated before she could get another word out.
It took Ron a long time to wake up the following morning, which was odd, as he usually didn't have problems getting up in the mornings. Especially when there was the smell of food in the air, like now. As his brain moved at a snail's pace to make sense of his surroundings, he groaned and pulled himself out of a bed that wasn't his.
That's when he noticed he was wearing real clothes, not the pajama bottoms he usually slept in. His eyes flashed to the bedside table where there was a half-full glass of water, but no wand.
He frantically patted himself and searched the bed, where he found it, tangled in the sheets. As his hand gripped the well-worn handle, the events of the night before finally came back to him. He groaned again, much louder this time, and took a seat on the edge of the bed.
Hermione had dumped him. For Harry. His stomach lurched and he grabbed the water from the table and downed the rest of the glass. His body was struggling with which emotion to feel. He had tears in his eyes from the sadness, was clenching his fists in anger, but also felt a warm blush on the back of his neck from shame. Fuck.
He plopped backward and stared up at the ceiling, which belonged to the spare bedroom of George's flat, he'd realized. He'd come straight here after punching Harry last night, not wanting to go to his own flat to avoid his roommate, who was a tosser. Actually, he wasn't. He was a new Auror in the department who was obsessed with Harry and Ron hadn't wanted to see anyone else last night who preferred Harry to him.
She chose Harry.
Warm tears rushed down his face, landing on the mess of sheets under his head. Hermione, the first witch he'd ever really loved, the only witch he'd ever loved. His best friend. Brilliant, beautiful, caring, bold, powerful Hermione. Who had always been a league above him—he'd known that—but he thought he was good for her. He thought he helped calm her down and enjoy the fun things in life. But Harry could do that, too. That … and more.
"We both deserve better."
She meant she deserved better. And she'd found it. In his bloody best mate. His best mate who was engaged to his sister!
"Fuck!" he shouted, driving his fists into his eye sockets. "Fuck!"
"We typically go with a simple 'Good Morning' around here," a cheery voice said from the doorway.
"Good morning, Angelina," Ron said bitterly, keeping his face hidden behind his hands.
"I made breakfast."
"No thanks," he groaned.
"When have you ever refused food?"
Ron moved his hand away and looked at her sardonically. "I'm sure George told you."
"That you and Hermione broke up? Yeah. But still, you need food. And don't you need to go to work?"
"Shit." Ron checked his watch. Oh, good, he had another hour before he had to be at work. At the desk he shared with Harry. "Fucking perfect."
"Your language is awful," Angelina said, smiling sadly as she watched Ron pull himself out of the bed. "We're working on a product for that. A candy that makes it impossible for you to swear for a few hours after you eat it. You end up saying things like, 'Oh, fudge' and 'gee-willy' instead."
"That's actually pretty funny."
She turned toward the hall and led the way to the kitchen. "Yeah. We made it as a joke product for students, but it turns out there's another market for it, with adults who want to stop swearing around young children." She raised a knowing eyebrow at Ron.
"She stopped saying it," he grumbled, taking a seat at the counter.
Angelina smirked as she pushed a plate of food in front of him. "That's where George is now," she explained, cocking her head to the closed door on her right that held her and George's lab. "We still need to work out a few kinks. There's this strange aftertaste that's reminiscent of a skunk."
As if on cue, there was a cry of "Ouch!" from the lab.
"You okay, babe?" Angelina called.
"Yeah," he called back. "Is Ron up?"
"Yep. Looking cheery." She winked at Ron, who stuck his tongue out at her.
"I'm sure. Be right there—I just need to contain this hellebore."
Ron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes, he wondered if George used the 39 Most Deadly Substances list as a guide for things to try and work into his products simply for the challenge, and not for the magical properties they provided.
Angelina took a seat next to Ron at the counter and began sipping from an overlarge mug of coffee. She leaned into him slightly. "I'm sorry."
Ron just grunted and began shoveling food into his mouth, which usually made him feel better. This time, it didn't, but he cleaned his plate anyway. George emerged from the lab as Ron was finishing off his last piece of bacon.
He headed straight to Ron and began rubbing some sort of salve on the back of his hand. "Oi! What is that?" Ron cried, trying to pull his hand away as a cold, tingling feeling spread from the spot George had touched. George was gripping him tightly and it hurt to try to fight him. It was the hand he'd hit Harry with and it was bruised and swollen.
"Shut up," George murmured, not releasing Ron's hand until he'd rubbed all the gold paste in.
The relief was instantaneous. "Oh, uh, that's nice. Thanks," Ron grumbled, opening and closing his now completely-healed hand.
"How are you?" George asked, looking uncharacteristically serious.
Ron just responded with a curt nod. He'd spent a solid hour crying into his brother's shoulder the night before, but they didn't need to talk about that. It's not like Ron hadn't done the same for George countless times in those months following Fred's death.
George gripped his shoulder tightly. "We'll go to the pub tonight, as soon as you're finished with work. I'll send Lee an owl. Do you—" He let his voice trail off.
Ron guessed George had been about to ask Ron if he wanted to invite anyone, then had remembered that Ron really only had one close friend, and that was Harry. Who had betrayed him. Who had stolen his fucking fiancée. Ron looked down at the counter as he blinked hard to fight back a new round of tears.
When he looked back up, he caught George and Angelina sharing sad glances. They were a good couple. He was glad his brother had found someone he could begin to rebuild his life with. Someone who could handle the swings between his usual, easy-going nature and dark, depressive moods.
"Do you watch each other sleep?" Ron asked before he could consider how ridiculous the question sounded.
"What?" Angelina asked while George chortled into his coffee.
Ron sighed. Oh well, he was already in it. He may as well get his answer. "Hermione said our relationship lacked details—whatever the fuck that means. She said we loved each other generally, but that we didn't love the little things about each other, like how we look when we sleep or all the different shades of our eyes or—I don't know —shit like that.
"But she's just fucking mental. She's just looking for excuses to be with Harry. She just wants him because he's— he's Harry Potter. I can't compete with that. And just because I've never really watched her sleep doesn't mean we're not good together. You know?"
George and Angelina exchanged another glance. "There's a lot to unpack there, Ron," George began, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Go for it. Unpack it."
"Okay," he replied in a tone that said, You asked for it.
"First off, if Hermione really is leaving you to be with Harry, it's not because he's Harry Potter. Give her more credit than that. And the details—" He sighed and looked over at Angelina. "I can't say I've ever watched Angelina sleep but … I do know the details. Like the difference between her 'I want something' smile, her 'I know something' smile, and her 'I did something' smile."
Angelina beamed at him.
"I know things about Hermione," Ron argued. "She's my best friend. I know that look she gets in her eye when she's about to lose her temper. I can tell by the set of her shoulders if she's stressed or annoyed. And I know when she's tired, too. Her eyes glaze over and she sways on her feet."
"Those are all negative," Angelina pointed out. "Maybe you started noticing all those things as a defense mechanism."
"No," he countered. "I know other things. Like—how she likes her tea. Her favorite café. The exact pens she likes and which Muggle shops sell them."
"But that's just—"
"Whose side are you on?!"
"We're on your side," George said calmly. "Of course we're with you, Ron. But, frankly, you need to consider this 'sides' thing. Is there a way to get through this break-up without there being any sides? Are you really not going to talk to Harry or Hermione ever again?"
"Yes." But even as he said it, his throat clenched.
They were interrupted by the arrival of an owl at the window. They all recognized it instantly as his mum and dad's new owl, Pollock, that George had bought them last year. George opened the window and took the letter from Pollock's beak as Angelina offered the owl a few scraps of toast from her plate.
George frowned as he read.
"What is it?" Ron asked, fearing the worst. Something had happened, someone was hurt. Or worse, someone was —
"Everyone's fine," George said with a dismissive wave. He set the note down on the counter. "It's about Ginny. She and Harry broke up last night."
"Oh." Ron got up to put his plate in the sink. His hand was shaking as he held the plate, making the fork rattle slightly. He'd been holding out hope that Hermione was wrong. He'd been hoping that she'd misunderstood—that Harry didn't really love her—that he'd just been overwhelmed by the mix of emotions that came from seeing his parents.
Ron had been harboring a fantasy of finally talking to Harry about it at work today. Harry would clear everything up, be embarrassed for sending Hermione the wrong message, and reassure Ron that the "break-up" with Hermione was just a fight, one they'd get over, like all the others.
Ron would have to apologize for punching him but Harry would forgive him. He would understand. But it was just a stupid fantasy. Harry had broken things off with Ginny. Now, he and Hermione were free to be together. That dark fear Ron had held in his heart for years was finally coming to pass.
Ron swiped his arm across his eyes as he rushed to the front door. "I need to stop by my flat before work. Thanks for—you know."
"Still up for the pub?" George asked.
"Yeah. I'll come straight here after work."
As Ron stood on the crowded lift, on his way to the Auror Offices on the second floor, he began to regret his decision to come into work today. He wasn't ready to see Harry. Just the thought of it was making him shake. He should have called in sick. But he had a case report due and was assigned stake-out duty with Jones this afternoon. If Ron backed out, Jones would be stuck with Rant, that old stodger, and would complain about it to Ron for weeks.
Ron could do this. He'd survived the bloody war, then Auror Training. He could handle a few hours of discomfort. A few hours of sitting next to his best mate—who had betrayed him—who had spent two weeks in another world sleeping with Hermione, telling her how much he loved her and convincing her to leave Ron.
He was flushed with anger by the time the cool voice in the lift said, "Level 2 – Department of Magical Law Enforcement." He could feel the heat on his cheeks and ears, which just made him more embarrassed, causing the warmth to spread. Ron walked off the lift with a few counselors, then stopped on the side of the hall to take several calming breaths.
He didn't want Harry to see him looking flustered, but no matter how many deep breaths he took, Harry would know. Harry knew him better than anyone—except Hermione. Ron had to blink fast to keep the tears at bay as he remembered her face from the night before. And her words.
"In the other world, I saw another way it could have gone ... I deserve someone who understands me ... I've thought, this whole time, that this was the only way and I—I was wrong."
"Fucking hell," Ron murmured under his breath.
He slammed his hand against the wall, causing a pair of young witches who were walking past to jump. Ron just glowered at them. This fucking sucked. Usually, when he was feeling like this, he went to Harry. Harry was always there, had always been there. He'd put up with so much shit from Ron over the years and still, had never left. Ron had been the idiot who left—not Harry.
And he'd promised himself he'd never leave Harry again. Hell, he'd even promised Harry. He still remembered the conversation. It was a few nights after the final battle and they were staying in one of the Gryffindor boys' dormitories. As they lay there in bed, each looking up at the red curtains, Ron had apologized for leaving Harry and Hermione during the Horcrux hunt.
He'd been close to tears as he apologized for doubting Harry, not just during the war, but also in Fourth Year. Ron apologized for every indiscretion he could remember, then all the ones he couldn't and by the end, he made a firm promise to never leave Harry's side again, no matter what happened.
But now… Surely, this was an exception. Harry had betrayed him in the worst way. How was Ron supposed to forgive him? He took a final breath and squared his shoulders, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation.
But Harry wasn't at his desk. His bag wasn't even hanging on the hook on the wall. That was odd. He'd never missed a day of work. Not even when he'd caught that awful cold several months before. He'd just downed a Pepper-Up Potion and spent the day reviewing Floo records while smoke trickled out of his ears. Before Ron could decide if he cared enough to ask around for Harry, Robards called his name from across the floor.
"Weasley! Jones! Lawson!"
Ron stood and that's when he spotted Harry walking out of Robards's office. He was wearing normal clothes, grey slacks with simple black robes, instead of his Auror robes—which was the first thing Ron noticed. The second thing Ron noticed was that Harry looked like absolute shit. He had deep blue bags under his eyes, his hair was messier than normal, and he was slouching, which wasn't a common stance for him.
Ron's chest clenched automatically. What are you doing? You don't care about that tosser! He betrayed you. But the voice was weak. It turned out it was a lot easier to hate Harry when he wasn't standing in front of him, looking even more miserable than Ron felt.
"Weasley!" Robards repeated.
"Coming, Chief."
The next moment, Ron was standing next to Harry while Jones and Lawson stood on Harry's other side. Harry had his bag draped over his shoulders, which was strange. Was he leaving? Hadn't he just arrived? He was pointedly avoiding Ron's searching gaze, looking at Robards, instead.
"Potter is resigning. You three will be taking his cases," Robards said gruffly.
"Wait, what?" Ron cut in.
Harry kept his eyes forward. "Sort it out before Potter leaves," Robards said, glaring at Harry, who was looking back at him, determinedly.
"You're leaving, mate?" Jones asked Harry once Robards had returned to his office. "Why? We just finished training."
Harry ignored his question and pulled a pile of parchment out of his bag. He handed it to Lawson, who looked completely unphased by the news that Harry Potter, the most famous Auror in their department and the best of the new recruits, by far, was quitting.
Then again, Lawson was unphased by most things. Ron had been there when the wizard was attacked by a banshee and while everyone else had dropped to the ground, frantically pulling their hands up over their ears, Lawson had calmly conjured a set of earmuffs and put them on, removed a Laughing Potion from inside his robes, and forced the Banshee to drink it without balking as she dug her nails into his arms. There wasn't much that rattled the man, including the news that Harry Potter was no longer an Auror.
"I made notes on every case this morning, as you'll see," Harry was saying. His voice was devoid of emotion, the way it got when he was doing interrogations. Ron tried to catch his eye a few more times, as he explained his notes which were so thorough, Ron was convinced by the end of Harry's review that Hermione had helped with them.
As that thought materialized, his earlier pity toward Harry disappeared, quickly replaced by anger. Had Hermione gone to Harry's last night? Had she slept there? Was that why he looked so tired?
No. Harry didn't look 'I shagged all night tired.' The exhaustion looked more like a result of crying all night. He felt bad for Harry again. But Hermione could have still been there. Comforting him, rubbing his back as he cried, and keeping his bed warm. The fire flared up in Ron's chest again. Fuck. He didn't know what to feel about this situation.
And now Harry was quitting? Harry? Who had worked harder than anyone and made it through the training program in record time? Harry, who had been the youngest ever Auror to make a solo arrest? Harry fucking Potter, the wizard who had killed bloody You Know Who?
"Let me know if you have any questions," Harry was saying, "but I think you'll have everything you need in there."
"So that's it?" Jones asked. "You're just—leaving?"
"Yes," Harry replied. He turned to go, but Ron caught his arm.
Harry looked down at Ron's hand, then up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time that day. His green eyes were devoid of their usual intensity, but still bored into Ron stronger than the average stare. Harry arched an eyebrow in question. When Ron didn't say anything, he gave him a curt nod and pulled away, marching to the lift without another word.
"Weasley!" Robards said, appearing on the other side of his door and holding an unfolded interoffice memo. "The Minister needs to see you in his office. Now."
"Oh, uh, okay." Since when did Kingsley want to meet with Ron? What the fuck was going on?
