False Fate

By MD1016

Part I: Cup of Oaths

Chapter 2 – His For The Taking

It was odd going back to the Burrow and feeling completely disjointed from his surroundings. Ron knew every inch of his childhood home, and yet everything seemed somehow new to him: different and cold. Even his bed, and while he fit perfectly in the Ron-sized depression in the middle, it felt foreign. Nothing had changed, really, and yet, subtly, everything had.

Ron kicked off his shoes and stared through the floral print curtains to the white light of outdoors.

After a while, there came a light knock from his bedroom door. His mother poked her head in.

"All right, dear?"

"Couldn't be better," he mumbled, not bothering to look at her.

"Good, good," she muttered. "Nice that Hermione is doing so much better, isn't it, dear? She should be going home today, yes?"

"I guess."

"Well, that's good." Molly pushed open the door a little further and stepped inside. "Thought you'd want to be there with her when she's discharged, but no matter. I'm sure her parents will tend to her. I'll be taking Ginny to get her school books this morning. Ron, sweet, are you absolutely sure you don't want to go to Hogwarts this year? It'll be your last year–"

"We've already talked about this, Mum. Harry needs us."

"Yes, yes," she said sadly, not really agreeing at all. "But you boys always find trouble without looking for it. And now…it makes a mother worry."

"It's Hermione, too. Not just me and Harry. And the Order."

"Hermione, yes, well, I used to think she was the sensible one in the group, but now I'm starting to think you and Harry have been a terrible influence on her, affected her judgment-"

"There's nothing wrong with Hermione's judgment!" Ron insisted.

Molly began to pick up socks from the floor, then dusted a couple of knickknacks with them. "You all right? You haven't been yourself since you came back from hospital."

"Yeah. Fine."

"I could make you some Jumble Jolts, if you like. Would you like that, dear? Because you seem so down? Hmm? Your father always perks up with a handful of Jumble Jolts. It's a good thing he's mostly a happy man or I'd be making pots of them a day, and he'd likely be the biggest wizard in the Ministry. Not real good for the waistline, you know, and your father is getting a bit on in years, as are we all, I suppose, and the middles do tend to get a little thicker every year. Not that I'd expect you'd say that to his face, now. Your father's still a very handsome man, as are all my men folk." She rustled his fringe. He turned his head away. He hated it when she treated him like a child. If she knew what he'd done to Draco…that he was a murderer…

"All right," she said quietly, and then folded the three mismatched socks in her hands into one large ball. For a moment she paused, watching him, and Ron thought maybe he'd have to offer some further assurance. She sighed and went to the door, dropping the sock ball back onto the floor. "Well, then," she said.

That was all there was to say, wasn't it? Well, then.

"Mum," he said to stop her. "Do you believe in…True Love?"

This time he turned his head and saw the shock written plainly across her face. He felt his cheeks darken, and he looked down to his stocking feet and the big hole over his second toe.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

Ron shrugged and looked back out the curtained window. "Just wondering."

"About what, dear?"

"About True Love and if it really exists."

"Oh, it does, for sure. But you don't need to worry about that. It's very rare, you know."

"Huh." No worries here, he thought darkly. Odd that something he never believed in, never really considered, could be so totally bereft from his life. Had he really Loved her when most of the time she'd rankled him? That never was Love, was it?

"You and Dad, though. You've got it. True Love?"

"Oh, no." She chuckled a little and sat herself on the bed beside him. "Not us. Of course, I love your father to the very bottom of my heart," she added quickly. "Would never want any other man in my life – to be the father of my children. But no, we've not got True Love."

"So, what's the difference?" Ron asked.

"Well…" She thought for a moment. "The Fates, I suppose. They take all the guesswork out of it, which is good for some, I suppose, because then there's no doubt. But they also take the choice away, too, which, if you ask me, is part of the fun."

"So, if you have a True Love then you have to get married to that person and have babies and stuff?"

"Oh, no," she assured. "The Fates don't take away free will. One can choose not to marry their True Love."

"You said the Fates do take away the choice."

"I meant of who you Love. When one has a True Love it's that person, and that person only, no ifs, ands, or buts – even if they're reprehensible and make you gag with the stink of it. So, of course, one can chose not to marry their True Love, but there will never be another. Love, that is," she added just to be sure he was following.

"So…." He cleared his throat and screwed up the courage to ask, "So if, hypothetically, something were to happen to one's True Love – say they died or something – then one would never, ever fall in love? Or know love…or anything?"

"That's how I understand it to be," his mum said with a nod. "'Course, there's more reasons to get married than love, you know. Many more. But you're young, and you've got plenty of time. Don't fash yourself into a bother over something that's very unlikely. And Ronnie, do think about coming with us to Diagon Alley. One more year at Hogwarts, even without Dumbledore there, would be good for you boys. And Hermione, too."

"Hmph," he disagreed.

"Now that she's feeling better, you could invite her over for dinner one night, if you want," she said very casually, but with a smile on her face that was anything but. "And I'm sorry that I suggested she might not be as sensible as she once was. That was unfair of me. She's a perfectly lovely girl."

"Hmph," he agreed.

"All right, dear." With that, she stood and kissed Ron on the forehead. She left the door slightly ajar.

Huh. So Ron would never fall in love. Big-effing-deal. That didn't mean he couldn't have girlfriends. Of course, they would never love him, either. That one stung just a little bit more. Whatever, he told himself. Love was for girls and silly people, and he was neither.

***

They sat around the old oak table in Harry's large basement kitchen – what used to be Harry's godfather Sirius Black's kitchen – eating fish and chips take-away and drinking orange Shastas. Ron loved Muggle food, and it was a rare treat when he got to indulge. Hermione, of course, was picking all the crisp from her fish, wasting it, Ron felt, but he didn't say anything. It was weird for him not to, that was just the sort of thing he'd usually gripe at her about – but now he didn't feel…comfortable? Was that the word?

Of course, Ron had polished off his portion and started on the extra that Harry had bought. He'd grown a good 15 centimeters over the last year and, thanks to Quidditch, had filled out through the shoulders and chest. His appetite had grown as well – and Ron had been a good eater to begin with. Good ol' Harry, though, always had enough food for a bloke.

"So, Harry," Hermione spoke first, having only touched a quarter of her plate. "What's the master plan? I'd like to do as much research up front as possible. I've my new library card to the Archives of Magical Tomes, next door to Gringotts, and Professor McGonagall said that I was welcome to use the Hogwarts library whenever." She beamed with excitement, and Ron found himself not rolling his eyes as usual. Weird indeed.

"I don't know, really. The Order won't meet here until the night after next, and I suppose we'll have to do some regrouping. We've got to find Voldemort and figure out who's who in the Death Eater ranks so we know who to watch out for." He turned to Ron. "You were right. The Cup of Oaths would've been quite helpful."

Ron squeezed grease from a chip, and it dripped down the underside of his thumb. "Yeah."

"So, I've been putting some work into this old house," Harry said, changing the subject completely. "I've hired an archimagitect to come in and make some changes, make the place more livable, less dark and gloomy. I couldn't bear to live in it like it was. He's moved some of the rooms around, added new paint and wall paper, relocated some of the portraits so they're less intrusive, that sort of thing. I thought it would be best if we're going to continue to use this place for Order Headquarters. And I had him put in a War Room."

He paused, fidgeted with his sleeve. "So, anyway, uh, listen. I was thinking…we might have a lot of late-night meetings or need to work at odd hours…and this is a really big place for just me. And if you wanted, the two of you could move in. If you want."

"That would be brilliant," Ron said quickly, happy at the prospect of leaving the Burrow. It was easier sitting there with the two of them close than it had been in his old room, and even if it wasn't quite like old times, if he didn't think too hard it was similar. The gaping hole in his soul didn't seem quite so jagged when his friends were close.

"I've got to get a job, though," Ron told them. "It's the only way my folks are letting me out of seventh year at Hogwarts. Dad said if I'm old enough to make it on my own, then I best make it on my own."

"What about you, Hermione?" The way Harry said her name stopped Ron's heart in his chest.

"I don't know. Mum and Dad are pretty upset over me leaving school a year early. They said they were disappointed in me," she added in a small voice. For Hermione, that must've been devastating. "And because of what happened, well, their confidence in my ability to take care of myself is somewhat diminished." She pushed a bit of fish crisp around on her plate, frowning. "I suppose, though, if I found work as well, maybe something Muggle and ordinary…"

Her disappointment sparked something in Ron, something small and fleeting, but he knew it was there. Absently rubbing that empty spot on his chest, he said, "That doesn't sound like you. Sounds boring."

"Thank you, Ron," she said with a little smile. "But it may have to be, at least for a while. I don't know. I just feel very queer about not being at school with everyone else. Not that I don't want to be here, because I do–" This time she offered Harry the smile. "I don't know…"

"I think we all feel the same," Harry offered. Ron gave a sarcastic snort, but Harry continued. "Honestly, I can't thank the both of you enough. I realize what you're giving up for me–"

"Oh, stop, Harry, before this meal dissolves into a sob fest," Ron quipped.

"Honestly, Ron," Hermione snipped. Whenever the moment gets the least bit sensitive you make a remark like that!"

"Like what?" he asked defensively.

"Like a child."

"I'm not a child," he insisted, his voice low with anger.

"Then don't act like one," she countered.

"I'm not!"

His reaction was so vehement it stunned her into silence. So much for feeling better here than at home, Ron thought.

"I'm not," he muttered again, and Hermione took that as a cue to stuff a whole chip in her mouth at once.

It was Harry who finally cleared his throat and said, "We're going to be OK," though he said it without looking at either of them. Hermione nodded solemnly, but Ron got the distinct impression that she hadn't a clue as to what Harry was really talking about.

***

Two days later Ron left his childhood home and moved into number 12 Grimmauld Place, also known by a select few as Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. He had his own room on the second floor in the large family manse, with an over-large, over-stuffed bed, an armoire, and a dressing table with a large mirror named Lucy. His things lay in a heap in the middle of the room, still bound in the carpet bags and scarred leather cases he'd packed them in. Unpacking was never a pleasant process, and the job before him seemed overwhelming. So, he decided to look in on Hermione and see how she was getting along.

Her room was down the hall and opposite Harry's. The door was wide open when Ron knocked.

"Hullo–" Ron began, and then stopped short. What had formerly been a spare bedroom was now transformed into something that resembled a resale shop for mountains of books. Dark wood shelves lined the four walls, and a four-poster bed was wedged inside one of them. Every shelf was crammed with books: big and small, leather-bound magical tomes and Muggle readers. A double-wide reading chair sat angled in one corner, and the table beside it was actually another smaller bookshelf that revolved on its own. Crookshanks lay curled up on a small stack on the bed, seemingly content in his new surroundings, as was Hermione, who was already nose deep in a fuzzy purple book.

She looked up at his knock and smiled. "Ron! You've made it."

"Uh…not to be critical, but is all this really necessary? Where'd you put your clothes?"

"I've a Murphy closet," she told him, then pulled a cord from under her bed in demonstration. Out rolled a flat box that instantly inflated into a massive closet. She swung one of the doors open, and inside hung clothes and shoes above three wide drawers. "As long as I don't mess up and put something magical in there, it'll hold just about anything and keep them pressed and smelling fresh."

"Right. Charlie's got one of those," he said, completely unimpressed. His eldest brother traveled a great deal for work, and therefore needed one.

Hermione packed her closet away. "I wanted to be sure to bring everything we might need. Mum and Dad still aren't thrilled with me living here, and I'd like to avoid unnecessary trips back to the house. I don't want them to think I can't handle this." She looked up at him at that and cocked her head to one side. "We can handle this, can't we, Ron? We're not in over our heads, are we?"

He took a deep breath and let the deep dark of her brown eyes bore into him. "You mean the Order, don't you?"

"And the Death Eaters, and Voldemort, and not finishing Hogwarts. Nothing seems to have gone as planned, has it?"

"No." He glanced over his shoulder at Harry's bedroom door.

"I'm sure we'll be good," she said, now suddenly sounding confident. "Together we always manage. You're not…" She turned to him. "Ron, tell me you're not going to go out on your own again. Promise me you won't do anything that foolish."

"What, are you my mum now?"

"Promise me," she insisted.

"Would you ask Harry the same?" he tested.

She paused and picked up the discarded purple book. "There are some things Harry has to do on his own," she remarked. "But my point is that it's not up to you or me to fight Harry's fight for him. And I worry, in the end, that's what it will be. Harry's fight. Oh, Ron." Her face crumpled, and Ron's stomach lurched. "Why did it have to be Harry?"

And somewhere, buried deep in his chest, Ron felt another little part of him wink out of existence without so much as a whiff of smoke.

With a hand clutching the front of his shirt, Ron backed out of the room. "I've got…to unpack," he said. A lame excuse.

She didn't even seem to notice. Hermione nodded, almost as an afterthought, as she turned to one of the expansive bookshelves and began again to search.

***

Tonks sat on a cushion by the roaring fireplace in the drawing room, a plate of food on one knee and a mug of Zombini's Dark Ale on the other. Her hair, Ron noted, was a blazing fuchsia and bouncing in ringlets even when her head wasn't moving. Across from her, in the wingback chair, Lupin looked just as happy, if less colorful. He sipped a cup of tea and alternated between smiling at Tonks and laughing at a story Shacklebolt was telling the group that involved Ron's father, the same Zombini's Ale, and something called handcuffs, which Ron could only assume were some sort of Muggle glove fashion.

"My younger years, I assure you all," Ron's dad said with a laugh, enjoying the merriment as much as the rest of the room. "And if a word of this gets back to Molly–"

"Molly? She's the one who told me, old man!" Shacklebolt erupted, and the room followed in gales of laughter. Even Harry and Hermione were laughing, though granted their Muggle backgrounds probably helped translate the punch line a bit.

Not that Ron was really listening in any case. He was waffling between the roast beef on the end of his fork and the complete misery that his life had become. The worst part, he decided, was that he couldn't talk to Harry about it – his best friend, who, Ron grimly noted, was quite enjoying the latest turn of events. Well, enjoying might not be honest, but Harry was definitely not hating life like Ron was. But then, when Ron saw a genuine laugh spill from Hermione and considered the alternative – her in that hospital bed, barely alive… The war of emotions was difficult to keep a lid on, and Ron found himself fighting the urge to leap up screaming and throw himself against the nearest wall.

That was part of being a man, wasn't it? Denying one's self. Stiff upper lip and all that? Or was it just part of being Ron Weasley? Destined by a twist of Fate to be a friend to greatness, but never to know it himself? Or, he considered, was Love really that great? Maybe he was better off. Maybe he didn't really care at all. Girls were an illusive, backwards gender, and Hermione was certainly a girl.

Fine. Good. Let Harry have her, he thought. Ron didn't need the hassle.

He might've been tempted to convince himself of that, too, if it weren't for the complete emptiness he carried with him now.

"…And while you're doing that," Lupin continued, with a nod towards Ron's dad, "we'll work with our newest recruits. Between Moody and me, I'm sure we can cover your sadly lacking Defense Against the Dark Arts education."

Had the meeting started? Ron looked around and all eyes were on Lupin in his chair. Dutifully, Ron deposited his plate on the small antique lamp table, but then decided he probably wouldn't have anything useful to add and picked it up again. No one would care if he kept eating. They'd probably be relieved because it meant he was less likely to say something stupid.

Moody stood against the wall with his arms crossed and his mad, bewitched eye sizing up the room. The eye landed and stayed fixed for a moment on Ron and his heap of potatoes, as if the odd wizard knew Ron hadn't been listening and didn't feel the least bit guilty about it. "We've got our work cut out for us," Moody grumbled.

"Professor," Hermione cut in, looking eager as ever. "I've been thinking about the Cup of Oaths, and I'm quite sure that with a proper plan–"

"Out of the question," Lupin cut her off, his tone more strict and sharp than Ron had ever heard it. He glanced over at Hermione, who shrank back a little on her footstool.

"We understand the three of you have made the choice to be here among us," Ron's dad continued for him, every bit as serious as Lupin had been. "And even though I disagree with that choice, we all respect the spirit in which it was made – which, quite plainly, is why you are allowed to be here. Don't do anything to make us regret that."

"No," Hermione said, and tried to quickly mend the moment. "I only meant that the Cup…"

"There will be no wild attempts or heroic efforts," Lupin lectured. "The Cup will stay where it is: protected and out of harm's way. Off limits.

"Now," he said with a fresh breath, "you may not be at Hogwarts, but you are most certainly continuing your education. We expect you, Harry and Ron, to get your Apparition licenses. None of you are any use to us unless you know what you're doing and can do it well. Is this understood?"

The three of them nodded.

"There are rules," Moody said, his voice almost growling. "And you will follow each and every one of them."

"Rule number one," Ron's dad chimed in. "Curfew is at nine o'clock. Inside this house, without fail."

"Rule number two," said Tonks, "no guests. Period."

"Wait a minute," Harry began, "we've reached majority–"

Lupin didn't let him get in another word. "Rule three: all advanced magic is to be practiced only under supervision, regardless of how many books might have been read on the subject."

"Rule four: no secrets. It's not the three of you against the rest of us."

"It feels like the rest of you against the three of us," Ron quipped in protest. Or me against the world, he thought. Certainly not the three of them together, in any case. No, not anymore.

"If we get even a whiff of any of you going out on your own to do something dangerous or foolish," Arthur told them, his face pinched and bloodless, "then your involvement in the Order will be re-evaluated."

"The work we do here is serious and grave," Lupin said. "You must understand this."

"I do," Harry whispered. Then: "We do."

"We'll not let you down, Professor," Hermione added.

"That's what we needed to hear," Tonks said, smiling.

"Tomorrow, then. Six p.m. We'll begin in the dining room," Lupin announced. "And Hermione–"

"Yes, Professor?"

"My name is Remus. I'm not your professor any longer."

Not children, and yet, not quite trusted to be adults. That's what the curfew was about, Ron was certain. Old enough to kill, but not to have a friend over for a pint.

It wasn't just the insides of Ron that felt wrong; everything around him seemed at odds as well. How was it that no one else seemed to notice? By the food, Shacklebolt, Tonks, and Ron's father began to chat once again over their laden plates while Lupin sat quietly sipping his tea.

None of them even considered Harry and Hermione sitting together near the fire, voices low and faces playful. No one saw Harry absently catch a stray strand of her hair and re-tuck it behind her ear, or the resulting small shiver that wiggled through her narrow shoulders. No one but Ron, who thought his head might explode.

***

Ron's first morning as a resident at number 12 Grimmauld Place began with a scream, a flash of orange, and a hammering heart. Crookshanks stared down at Ron from the headboard of the bed, gold eyes darting from Ron's face to his foot that had kicked free from the blankets at the bottom of the bed. Then, with another piercing shriek, the cat launched itself the length of the bed and landed – claws extended – on Ron's shin. This time Ron screamed, too.

Hermione pushed the door open just as Crookshanks flew across the room, Ron having kicked it there.

"What have you done?" she demanded, and then went to Crookshanks's aid. It scurried under the armoire, hissing and refusing to come out. "Poor, fluffy kitty. Did the mean old Ron hurt you?"

"Me hurt it?" Ron asked incredulous. "I'm likely to lose the leg thanks to that flea bag!"

"He's a him, Ron, and Crookshanks could never hurt a fly."

"The blood on my leg says he could."

Hermione flipped her hair over one shoulder and scowled at him. "Why do you hate cats?"

"I don't. Only the cats that attack me first thing in the morning! That thing is mental, I tell you. Couldn't it tell that my toes are attached to the rest of me?"

She ignored him, and her hair fell into place, hiding her expression from him. "Come on, Crookshanks. There's a good kitty. I'll find you a nice piece of fish if you come out from under there."

With Hermione on her knees, Ron got a nice view of her rear. But it was the milky flesh at the small of her back, peeking out just above the waist of her jeans, that sent a bolt from his heart straight down between his legs. Startled, Ron sat up straight in the bed and clutched two fists full of blankets to cover this newest predicament.

"Ron, apologize," Hermione insisted, oblivious to his current state of distress. "He's got his feelings hurt, and he won't come out until you apologize."

"Sorry," Ron said quickly. Anything to placate her and get her out of there. His voice cracked, and she turned to him.

"You all right, Ron? You don't look so good."

"Fine!"

She eyed him. "Are you sure?" With an intent look on her face, Hermione stood and began to walk towards him.

Ron panicked. "Get out!"

Her eyes went wide. She hesitated. "What?"

"Out!" he repeated. "Get out!"

Her face dropped and then went completely blank. "Fine," she said on an exhale. She turned on her heel and stomped out of the room.

Ron closed his eyes in relief and then peeked down under the covers. "Great," he muttered. "This is bloody insane."

***

Ron left the house without breakfast that morning, wanting to avoid accidentally running into Hermione again so soon after he yelled at her. A little time away, he decided, would do him a world of good. And besides, he was a man on a mission.

First stop: Ministry of Magic. Ron waited over an hour to speak to a secretary of a secretary to the Secretary of Unemployed Magical Persons and to fill out a parchment on his marketable skills, only to be told by that secretary's secretary that there were no positions currently open for a person of his skill set. A not-so-subtle suggestion was made to go back to school, as he had a number of O.W.L.s under his belt and they'd great need for wizards with N.E.W.T.s at the moment in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. For a long moment Ron fancied himself a Quidditch expert in that Department, and then he was asked to step to the side so the next applicant could be turned down as well.

His second stop was Gringotts, the wizard's bank, where Ron had hopes that someone might need a clerk who could reach the high shelves, but they turned him away, apparently smelling the lack of money about him and thus not trusting him inside their establishment. The third time he was turned down was at the Leaky Cauldron for his inability to cook, clean, or mix drinks. Then it was The Three Hags' Robes ‘n’ Things and his lack of fashion sense, Nostradamus Nights because he couldn't label any of the constellations or actually divine the future, and lastly The Witchy Woman simply because he wasn't one.

At the end of the day, Ron shuffled home, head hung low, hungry, still unemployed and without any prospects. He found Harry and Hermione in the kitchen at the long, dark, wooden table, sitting side by side on the bench, bent over an enormous book that looked to be centuries old. Were they sitting closer than usual? Ron couldn't decide. Maybe it was the arched ceiling that made them seem closer.

"There you are," Hermione said pointedly, but a small smile softened her face. "Any luck?"

"Nah. You?"

"Yes! I met with the woman who runs the flower shop two streets over. She's already got somebody in mind, but they can't start for weeks, and she needs a girl right away. I start tomorrow morning!"

"A flower store? You mean where they sell flowers? Not books?"

She scowled at him, but didn't bother with a rejoinder.

To break the tension, Harry shoved the book across the table at him and pointed to the sketch on the page that made to bite at his finger. "Sputter bugs. Heard of them?" The grouchy looking image seemed more an imp than a bug.

"Supposed to be nasty little things, aren't they? I've never actually seen one, but Percy said he knew a fellow with an infestation. Terribly hard to get rid of, they are, even if there's only one. Don't they live in your ears or something?"

Hermione quoted from memory: "The Sputter Bug, or Mussito nocere, is a small parasite resembling a tickle-fairy that lives within the first several layers of skin just behind the ear, existing primarily on blood and emotional energy and excreting the host's innermost thoughts to anyone in the immediate vicinity, particularly if those thoughts are about that person in the immediate vicinity."

Ron wondered how she was able to do that so bloody well. "Don't tell me we've got one," he pleaded. The last thing he needed was his emotional crisis announced to the world.

"What do you think might happen if a few sputter bugs got loose in the homes of some of the families we know are Death Eaters?" Hermione coyly asked, a knowing grin on her face.

"You're wicked!" Ron exclaimed, all smiles himself. The mischievous side of Hermione was exciting, and Ron always got a thrill when she let it out. "Do you have some?"

"It just so happens Hagrid has half a dozen for his Care of Magical Creatures class, but the new Headmistress forbade him to even let them out of their jars, and he's looking for a new home for them," Harry told him. "And I thought we might know of a few homes that could use a sputter bug or two."

"You saw Hagrid today?" Ron was both jealous and excited. "How's he doing?"

"All right," Harry said with a heavy sigh. "Hogwarts just isn't the same. I popped in for a spot of tea, and you could see the toll changing Headmasters has taken. They've had to find a new Potions teacher as well, and everyone is on edge because no one is sure about allegiances anymore. They've taken to short-sleeved robes just to be sure people aren't wearing the Dark Mark in secret. Don't know what they're going to do when the weather turns."

"Anyway, the Sputter Bugs were just a thought," Hermione interjected. "We'll have to run them by Lupin and Moody tonight."

"Are we really doing that?" Ron asked. "Following those rules?"

Hermione gave an exaggerated sigh. "Ron, you heard what they said–"

"It just doesn't seem our way, is all I'm saying," he said quickly. "Curfew? No visitors? It's like they don't trust us."

"I think that's the idea," Harry said with a smirk.

"We're not children anymore." Ron huffed and crossed his arms. "We didn't have this much hand-holding as first years."

Hermione considered him from the corner of her eye. "You have to admit that times have changed since then, and not for the better. And I, for one, would like to avoid hospital beds for a while."

Ron caught a fleeting look flash across Harry's face. Alarm, was it? Concern? A twist in Ron's gut forced him to look anywhere but at his friends. His eyes landed on the tray of food at the far end of the table. "What's for supper, then?"

"Cold," Harry told him. "I made up some soup, but couldn't figure out how to cook it."

"Well, is there anything else to eat?" His stomach rumbled at the thought of not being filled in a timely manner. "Fish and chips?"

"Salad," Hermione said, once again lost in her book. Ron looked over at the worktop to the lonely bowl and its sad green contents.

Salad wasn't a meal. Salad was the tease before the meal. No red-blooded Englishman, magical or otherwise, should be expected to sustain himself of salad. "Can't we just heat up the soup or something? Make a roast?" Ron asked, now feeling faint at the prospect of salad.

"Do you know how to work that thing?" Harry pointed to the behemoth cast iron stove that took up most of the back wall of the kitchen.

"Are you asking if I can cook?" Ron was dubious.

"There aren't any knobs," Harry told him. "We couldn't figure out how it worked."

"Knobs? Are you mental? It's a wizard's stove. What would you need knobs for? Just bewitch it into cooking for you."

"Funny how we didn't cover that at Hogwarts," Hermione said. "You'd think they'd have some kind of Wizard Studies class, you know, for those of us who grew up in Muggle households."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Who doesn't know how to work a stove?" he grumbled. "It's not like you have to cook or anything. Just heat the bloody soup up, for crying out loud!"

"If it's so easy," Hermione snapped, "then you do it!"

"Fine!" he snapped back, and snatched the cold stew from off the table. "Now I'm the housewife. Great. I move out of my mum's house to become my mum. Lovely. Bloody lovely."

***

Supper was more of the same; Harry and Hermione remained unhelpful and indifferent to Ron's mood, and Ron continued to hate the world around him. The soup turned out salty and smoky (it burned to the bottom of the cauldron), and so Ron, Harry, and Hermione ended up eating mostly salad.

As a result, when Mad-Eye Moody showed up, Ron's demeanor had hit an all-time low, and therefore he was only half-listening to the lecture Moody was giving on friendship and loyalty and trust.

"How much do you trust him?" Moody was asking. The long pause told Ron the wizard was talking to him. "I said" – Moody leaned in closer, his mechanical eye focusing in on Ron – "how much do you trust him?"

"Him?" Ron asked, and motioned to Harry with his chin. "Well enough, I reckon."

"Well enough?" Hermione asked, dramatically critical. "Ron, you're supposed to say you trust him with your life!"

Moody snorted his disgust. "With your life, eh? What about your death?" This time he zeroed in on Hermione, and her eyes went wide. "Do you trust him with your death, little girl?"

"I-I'm sure I don't know what you mean–"

"I mean," he snapped, not letting her fidget her way out from under his relentless scrutiny, "do you trust him to give you a good death? When you're lying there in agony, hopeless and dying, your life-blood pooling around you, do you trust your man Harry to make the final blow? Do you trust him to make that necessary choice? What about Ron, here?" Without moving an inch from Hermione, Moody reached back, grabbed Ron by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him so close his nose nearly touched hers; so close he could feel her shaking. "Do you trust him with your death?"

"Stop it!" Ron yelled as he attempted to twist out of Moody's grip. "You're scaring her!"

"I'm scaring her, am I?" He instantly turned on Ron. "Welcome to the real world, where even the people you trust most can have the darkest of dark secrets; will watch you die slowly, feed off your agony like a leech."

"Blood Magic." Hermione said the words, but Ron had never heard her voice so desolate, so scared.

"And what do you know about it?" Moody demanded. He released Ron, who fell into a heap on the floor.

Hermione didn't shrink from Moody this time; her face was white and blank as polished marble. "I know what it is. It's the worst of the worst, darkest of the Dark Magic. They say that the power that's released at death – the spirit, the very essence of our beings – can be trapped and used to make another's magic more powerful, more deadly. But it can't be a clean death. There has to be torture. Pain. Suffering. Horrible–" She broke off, turned away from them.

"Someone's been doing her homework," Moody said slowly. "Good. Very, very good." He turned now to Harry and Ron, who had managed to pick himself up, though he wasn't sure what else he should be doing, so he'd stuffed his fists in his pockets. "So, who will it be?" Moody motioned to the boys with his left shoulder. "Harry or Ron? Black or Red?"

"Who will it be for what?" Ron asked, once again angry at Moody's tone.

Hermione, however, didn't hesitate. "Harry," she said. "It would have to be Harry, wouldn't it?"

"Right, then," Moody said. He grabbed Harry by the wrist, and then Hermione, and forced them to face each other. "Hold hands. No, Hermione's on the bottom. Right. Now look at each other. Right eyes, please. Look in, look deep. Relax. Good."

Ron didn't know what had just happened. He went from hating Moody for upsetting Hermione to hating Moody for giving Hermione over to Harry to hold hands with and gaze at all lovey-dovey. And there was a little sting in there that Hermione had chosen Harry over him, but Ron still wasn't quite sure what the choice had been about. Who was most likely to kill her? None of this felt right.

"Now slowly, the both of you are going to reach down inside to that place where you feel your magic stir. Don't lose the eye contact! Easy now, not too much." Moody began to ever-so-slowly back up, and reached out an arm to force Ron to do the same. "Hermione, you trust him. Remember that. He won't hurt you."

"Never," Harry whispered.

"Now, Harry, can you feel the heat coming off of her? Feel the energy just below it? The prickles? The tension? Don't go too deep, not this first time, Harry. Just a taste. Feel her energy below your hands, and then open up and let that energy rise up into your hands. Let it mix with yours. That's right. Easy now. Not too much."

The lights in the room hadn't changed, and yet both Hermione and Harry were more brilliantly lit than they had been a moment before. A breeze brushed up at them, lifting her hair off her shoulders just a little, rustling his shirt, but not reaching Ron or Moody, now on the other side of the room.

"Right, Potter. Now you have it. With her energy, not your own, light the fireplace. Careful not to mix the magic yet. You're not ready for that. Just take what she's giving you and–"

"Incendio!"

Instantly the fireplace erupted into a blaze so large it swept up the chimney and out over the mantle. The sconces on the walls exploded, and several of the stained-glass lamps in the room burst into flames. The curtains caught almost immediately, and fire licked the ceiling black before Moody could yell, "Aguamenti!" For a few odd seconds the room rained, and the fires went out. Everything went quiet.

And in that instant between chaos and stillness, Harry grabbed Hermione by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her mouth so fierce and intense Ron knew it would be seared into his brain for the rest of his miserable life. Tears pooled in his eyes, but Ron couldn't look away. Not even when she returned the kiss, or when her hands lifted to his head and ran through his soggy hair. And not even when Harry's arm lowered to that smooth patch of flawless skin at the small of her back and he pulled her closer. Their slim bodies met, stretched like a string on a bow. He bent over her, kiss after kiss, and she pulled him down with her. The air in the room was thick and hot and full of smoke. Water dripped from every surface.

Then, all at once, she wilted in his arms. Her head fell back, throat exposed, and her wet hair hung limp and loose as he lowered her to the ground. Harry yelled her name, screamed, and Moody was there by her side in an instant trying to push Harry far enough away to see what was wrong with her.

"Calm down, Potter!" Moody demanded. "She's fainted, not dead."

"Fainted? Why? Hermione doesn't faint! What's wrong with her? What do I do?"

"Nothing! Now, calm down!"

In a moment of clarity, Ron saw the scene for what it was: the fire, the water, the blast of energy and his fallen friend. "You took too much," Ron said, a frightening calm filtering through him, chilling him to the bone. "You've taken too bloody much."

"I haven't!" Harry said, sounding fearful and confused. "Have I? Have I hurt her?"

"She'll be fine," Moody assured.

"Who'll be – bloody Merlin!" Lupin came from the entry hall and took in the damaged room and then the unconscious figure in the middle of the soggy floor. "He didn't burn her, did he?"

"Nah," Moody said with a casual shake of his head. "The lad just got carried away. Her well's not very deep, it seems, but he didn't take enough to burn her."

"Burn me?" Hermione's words were slurred, and as she began to look around the room Ron noticed she had trouble focusing. "Am I burned?"

"Not a bit of it," Lupin cooed, kneeling over her. "How do you feel, Hermione?"

"Squishy," was her reply.

Both Lupin and Moody exchanged knowing looks. "I'll send Tonks a message," Lupin said. "She'll need some help getting cleaned up." Then he turned to Ron. "Can you carry her up to her room?"

"I'll do it–" Harry began, but both Lupin and Moody cut him off with a firm, "No!"

"You can't touch her again until she recovers," Lupin said to Harry, recovering in a conversational tone. "Until you both recover. You probably don't feel it yet, but when the adrenaline wears off you won't be in much better shape than she is at the moment. Incidentally, Harry, when you wielded her magic, how did it feel?"

"Unbelievable. Thrilling," he said unhappily.

"And now?" Lupin prompted.

"Terrible. Like I've beat her…"

"Good," said Moody, his magical eye focusing and refocusing on Harry. "Remember that, Harry. There are always consequences. Everything has its price."

***

Tonks arrived shortly after Ron laid Hermione out on her bed. Crookshanks hopped up to sniff at its mistress, hiss, and then bolt under the bed. Tonks tsked and gave Hermione a little shoulder shake. "You awake in there?"

"Flowingly," Hermione said.

"Yeah, I remember that feeling. Shared energy isn't for everyone. Thank you, Ron." Tonks dismissed him without even looking in his direction. She unlaced Hermione's shoes and tossed them by the over-stuffed chair.

"They say we have a shallow well of magic, but in truth, I think it's that we're more sensitive to our magic's absence. We are creatures of nature, you and I, Hermione, and as such we need our natural balances." While he watched, Tonks' hair went from pink and orange bouncing curls to a dark green and gold wave that seemed to have its own wind brushing through it.

She stripped off Hermione's sodden socks and draped them from two of the bed posts, and then lit a small fire in the fireplace Ron hadn't noticed before.

"Come, now, let's get you out of those wet clothes." She reached for the hem of Hermione's top.

Ron ducked out the door, heart hammering at the very thought of Hermione in wet clothes, and then getting out of them. And, well, if truth be told, of Tonks helping her out of them as well.

"He kissed me." Hermione's voice, soft and dream-like. A quality Ron couldn't remember hearing before. It stirred his insides, made him want to cry, and stopped him dead in his tracks just outside the door.

"Kissed you?" Tonks asked, surprised. "Did he, now?"

"On the mouth."

"Ron kissed you? In here? While you were like this?" The growing concern in Tonks' voice, and the accusation, left a lump in the side of Ron's throat. "I'll have to have a chat with that boy–"

"Harry," Hermione corrected. "Oh, Harry…"

There was a pause, and then, "Harry Potter?"

"There's something different about him, different from when we were in school. He's…"

"Grown up?" Tonks sounded more amused than anything. "Yes, yes. Your Harry is very grown up now, isn't he?"

"Very," Hermione agreed. "But…there's something more. I can't think to describe it. There's a …"

"A what? Hermione? Oh, yes, then. Sleep well and sweet dreams."

End of chapter 2