---

She wandered wordlessly through the corridors until she came to a door marked Library. She silently pushed it open and retreated to a far corner away from prying eyes and concealed couples. She breathed in the heavy scent of pine needles and the raw smell of the exposed wood. She could smell the familiar musty odour of unloved books. Not many ventured into this secluded corner; few knew it was even here.

She knew it was here. She had visited it many times. She sighed heavily and reached into her bag, pulling out a shard of glass and placing it on the table in front of her. She watched her expression waver in the reflective surface and thought boldly how blank, how expressionless, how plain she was.

Outside, she could hear the trees singing their sorrow as the wind whistled through them, and she closed her mind to hear inside her heart. She rubbed her temples irritably and sank into a hazy stupor.

She watched from afar, yet so near. She was analysing her every move, contemplating her every decision, as though she were one with the girl. Yet, she was detached.

*

Hermione ran her fingers through her hair nervously, feeling the greasy strands fall down in front of her eyes as she took in shaky, uneven breaths. She was biting off more than she could chew. She was trying to prove to herself that she could do these things, these things she wanted to do to complete herself. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t manage things. She couldn’t complete things. She couldn’t.
Hermione squeezed her fingers around the random bushy curls that fell from the bunch in her hand. Just the whole strain of it all was coming down on her shoulders – she was the smart one. She was the one who was supposed to have all the genius ideas. Ever since Harry left, Ron had looked up to her in a way that was eerily reminiscent of the way Hermione had admired Harry’s bravery in their first year. Ron seemed lost without Harry. It was almost as if she and Ron defined themselves based on their famous friend. Without Harry, they were just figments and shadows of the joyous people they had occasionally been between the wars.

She felt like crying; she couldn’t cry. She stared at herself in the mirror, and got no answers. She simply saw herself there, waiting for someone to answer her problems, someone to tell her what she wanted to hear, what she needed to hear. She needed someone above her telling her what to do. She didn’t need Ron looking out for her, but never guiding her. She needed someone who could actually give her a task to complete, rather than just wait for some brilliant idea to formulate in her mind so that together she and Ron might be able to bring Harry back.

She craved an outsiders input, someone who saw the outside her, the ‘her’ that didn’t over-analyse things in her brain. She thought too much about things, things that needn’t be worried about in others’ eyes. And yet, she deemed these things of great importance, and therefore generated stress.

She liked to escape, escape to worlds where normal things froze and the few things that mattered were in her control. She liked deciding what was happening, when it happened. She liked to see peaceful calm in others, and ferociously wished her life were more like “theirs,� whether “they� were fictional or otherwise. Then, she wondered, do they think the same about me? She doubted it, and the flimsy façade she created around herself. She doubted people saw this façade as the REAL her. Perhaps they saw beneath it, into the soul that had borne so many cuts, so many mishaps, so much disappointment.
She glanced around at the books and all the titles that leapt out at her from the older covers, and the unique smell from the musty rotting pages. Hermione raised her head from between her hands and sniffled, looking at the books that had been her friends before she’d had real ones. Now that Ron seemed so foreign to her, familiarity was the thing she craved. She just wanted to sit here, by herself, and figure it all out before someone pushed her to answer.

She liked having a point of how the world looked back at her, rather than what she perceived through her own eyes. She wondered, briefly, and sometimes in great lengthy periods, if the world ever thought about her, the way she thought about other people and their “happiness.�

True, other people’s happiness could never be her own. They too struggled with their own battles; she could see that. She could see that the girls in her common room had problems, problems that seemed trivial when compared to her own problem – that her best friend Harry Potter was missing – but still, they were real problems to those girls, and looking back, she felt awful for scorning their sadness. She also wished she could help them, just as she longed for someone to help her. But then, she would not be in control of herself. Someone would be telling her what to do, guiding her, yet restricting her.

Hermione wished she were a fictional character. Someone who’s profile could be printed out, black and white, no complications, no heartache. No wants, no needs. She wished her problems could be predictably challenged and solved, and as easy as those books she so dearly loved to escape into. She reached out and grabbed a book from the small table on which she rested. Faded and wrinkled, almost as if someone had dropped it into a bath, the cover was smooth and tattered, and she caressed it lovingly. How she had once wished she lived in a world ruled by men, so simple – until she understood what a glass ceiling effect this had on her, and she started standing up for herself and living in the real world.

She wished people could un-complicate things, and yet, she wanted to ramble on, explain everything in minute detail, and still have someone know exactly how she felt. She was impatient, ready for her life to change so that she could find some satisfaction in something.

The simple truth was that she was stretched too thin.

*

She let her curls fall down around her face as she drew in ragged breaths. She could cry now. Her self-analysis was done.

Part I

A dark figure appeared in the sliver of her shard. She whipped her head around to find Ron standing there, his fists clenched at his sides, and his mouth looked dry and parched. His blue eyes roamed over her disheveled appearance.

Hermione folded her arms across her chest and tried to shake the salt tears from her cheeks. She flopped a lock of hair across her face as a physical barrier.

“What are you doing here?� she said in feigned confusion.
She knew why he had come.

“I just … wanted to see if you’re okay,� he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Well, you can see, I’m fine. Now leave,� she shot back, turned back and flumping down in her chair again.

He caught her shoulder in his hand.
“No, Hermione. I’m not leaving. C’mon, tell me what’s wrong.�

She lifted her head, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Ronald? Everything’s wrong! Nothing’s right! It’s all simply too much! What do N.E.W.T’s really matter in the fight against Voldemort? Why am I wasting my time being bookish when I could be learning to defend myself in the most practical way, the way Harry is right now. He’s out there, risking butt hide for us, for everyone, and what do I do? I sit here! I sit here, wallowing in my own self pity!� Her cheeks were a mottled red, crossed with the silver of her tears.

Ron stepped back and held up his hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay,� he said, his voice wavering. He quickly disappeared behind the bookshelves, and Hermione briefly wondered why he had left so easily. She sank back into her stupor, and laid her head on the desk, and dropped the shard beside her eye. She saw the brown pupil flux then close sleepily. All she needed was sleep.

*

She woke sleepily to find someone holding her elbow. It was a comforting gesture, and she didn’t know whether she was still asleep, or awake. Hermione thought weakly that she was in that between stage when she clung to her dreams, when she tried to hold on the last bits of happiness while she could, until they were gone, and they couldn’t be retrieved. She reveled in her dream for seconds longer, and then she shook her head blearily. She blinked her eyes and was surprised to see blue eyes staring intently at her face, searching for answers.

“Ron,� she mumbled. She didn’t lift her head off the table; that required too much energy.

“Hermione … I couldn’t leave things the way they were,� he said.

“Ron, you didn’t have to come back. I’m sorry for the way I acted. It’s not as if you deserved it.�

“Okay,� he nodded, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets.

Hermione frowned and lifted her head off the table. She smoothed out the creases in her face,
“That’s it? Okay? Ron, what’s got into you?�

Ron shuffled. “It’s just, Hermione, I don’t know what else to say. You seem to fly off the handle at everything lately.�

Hermione bristled. “Ron, that was the by far the most insensitive thing I have ever heard you say. Even to me.�

Ron shuffled his feet again and looked around at the dusty bookshelves and deserted books.
“Hermione, there’s just so many things to say. I can’t say them all right now.�

Hermione fair stood up now, letting her chair clutter to the ground. “Why, Ron, why can’t you talk to me? What’s keeping you from letting me know what’s on your mind? Am I that insignificant, so oblivious to the world you think I wouldn’t notice you’ve been different around me lately?�

Ron played with a stray thread on his jumper, but now he looked Hermione straight in the eyes.
“I couldn’t bear to hurt you, Hermione.�

Hermione’s eyes blazed with anger, but Ron forced himself to look into them.
“I can’t keep my mouth shut. I can’t tell you what I’ve been keeping from you.�

“Why not, I’m sure you’ve told Harry, and Ginny, and probably anyone else you’ve come across, is that right Ron?�

He had a pained expression on his face. “No, Hermione. I haven’t told anyone. I came here today to see you, and show you what I want to say.�

“Show me, but how -�

Ron didn’t wait for her to finish. He titled her chin up and kissed her lightly on the lips.
He released her chin and she took a step back. She was slightly taken aback, and didn’t know what to say. She put her hand on the desk to steady herself.

“Ron … Is that what you wanted to tell me?� she said faintly, her voice showing the tinniest note of hope.

“No, that wasn’t it,� he said.
Hermione’s face fell slightly, and she ducked her head and shook it slightly.

He grabbed her hand off the desk and held it in his own coarse one. “No. This is what I wanted to show you.� And he grabbed her around her petite waist and pulled her closer. She lifted her head slightly to stare at his chin. Hermione was surprised to see it was trembling slightly.

She gasped slightly and his hands found their way up and down her back comfortably, releasing weeks of pent up stress and pain, and she relaxed into his arms.

The kiss deepened, and she was slightly disappointed that this long awaited kiss, to her felt like nothing. She wasn’t aware of the dusty odor around her, impervious to his cologne he had obviously taken time to apply. Even the sharp smell was dulled to her senses. She couldn’t feel the warmth in his hands, the texture of his jaw against her own, the softness of his tongue against her lips. Should couldn’t feel any of it, and it killed her.

She pushed herself away from him. His eyes widened in surprise, then hurt. Finally, they steeled and he took a step back and slammed into the shelf. Books rained down around him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was focused on Hermione. She cringed as she heard the dull smack of the covers hitting the ground.

Hermione let out a sniffle as he wrenched his eyes from her own, and stuffed his hands in his pockets moodily. He walked away, not turning around.

Hermione sobbed in anguish and called out his name. “Ron. Ron!�
Over and over again she called, until her throat was hoarse.

She found herself shaking as she woke up, her shoulders shaking as she wept, and the sliver of glass broken on the floor beside her.

*

It had all been a dream.

A/N: Okay, the chapters to this story are going to be pretty short in comparison to my other stories, but that’s just because the events that take place pretty much speak for themselves, and rather than have one short, two long or one very long one-shot, I decided to try something new and have three short chapters, bang, bang, bang.

Could you please let me know, is my dialogue correct? That is to say, would an older Ron and Hermione actually say these things?
Also, do you think I now have too much dialogue and too little imagery? Or is this a fresh change? I’m trying to expand my type of writing, so all comments are appreciated!

-Steph.

Many Thanks to: RedHeadedWealsey for all their help on sentence structure and the chapter overall, and to MithrillQuill for Modding all the chapters, even though she's not partial to this type of fic. Thank you!



Part II



Hermione stood, resting her forehead against the cool leather of the ancient school books. She banged her head repeatedly, and the dust that fell from the topmost shelf made her eyes water.



Her thoughts were on Ron, and her eyes were no longer watering. Tears were rolling down her cheeks; at first an over brim, then they tumbled one after the other, silently coursing their way down her pale cheeks and getting caught in her hair.



Why had it only been a dream? For once in her life, she’d grasped something, been able to keep it with in reasonable reach. As soon as she felt truly happy, it turned out her damned mind had been messing with her.



She sat down at the desk again. The pines outside hummed with monotonous dysphoria. Besides the normal healthy chatter of the working students that usually filled the rows of bookshelves, everything was calm and mysteriously quiet. Nothing moved, and Hermione felt like the world had stopped.



Her world certainly had. She allowed herself to dream, and set the standard too high. She set herself up for disappointment, and received her reward regularly.



She sighed. Days melded into one another, weeks into months. It seems eons since she had dreamed about Ron, since she’d had the encounter. It seemed years since she’s spoken a word to anyone. She walked numbly around Gryffindor Tower like a ghost. No one paid her attention, and she stared senselessly back at them with big, haunted eyes.



She did, however sneak a small savory glance at Ron every so often. Whenever she did, his head was bowed in deliberate concentration at the four feet of parchment in front of him, covered in long, loopy disjointed writing. A letter to Harry, she proposed. Harry hadn’t written in months. She knew he was alright; something as loud and well-celebrated about as Harry Potter dying or defeating the Dark Lord would not be a secret from anyone in the Wizarding community. Hermione doubted even the Muggles would not notice a change in atmosphere.



There was a susurrus, and Hermione lifted her head off the cool desk. The overhead sunshine that had been floating in earlier had been replaced with stumpy candles in their holders, and a lantern made its way toward Hermione with briskness and finality.



She didn’t care if she’d gotten caught. She’d surrendered her Head Girl badge to Susan; after all, who wanted a depressive self indulged Muggle-born for a head Girl is such times of trouble?



A freckled and concerned face appeared in the light of the lantern. Hermione’s eyebrows rose in confusion, fright and then lowered again in hazy recognition.



“Ron,� she said hoarsely. The monosyllabic word felt like aloe against the sand paper of her throat. She hadn’t used her voice in weeks, and she liked the sound of it.



“Ron,� she said again. “Ron, why are you here?�



Ron silently ambulated forward, watching her the whole time. His blue eyes were slightly dimmed in the lamplight, but Hermione’s shone.



“I- I felt guilty, Hermione,� he whispered. His eyes never dropped from her face, orange in the glow.



Hermione’s mouth fell open in surprise. “Guilty? Ron, why?�



“I didn’t come back. I was a coward. I ran from you when you needed me.�



Hermione was shocked. She didn’t know what to say. She just sat there, staring into his eyes. She had never noticed how deep and complicated his eyes were; they told a new found knowledge, a new yearning.



“I did need you Ron, but I pushed you away.�



Ron nodded. “I know, but I should have held on fast.�



He took a short step and enveloped Hermione in a hug. She felt her weary muscles relax into his, felt the comfort and safety of his arms. She leant into him, and smelled his scent. This wasn’t a dream, it was happening, and Hermione could feel. She could feel his fabric of his shirt; she could feel the thump-thump of her heart, and she could feel the stillness in the air around them.



“Forgive me, Ron. This is just a dream but I need to be sure…�



Hermione licked her lips quickly and made to raise hers to his, but he reached down and caught her jaw in his hands, and her lips on his own.



To her immense surprise, she melted into him, enjoying his taste, his feel, his presence around her, guiding her, strengthening her…



Her lips tingled. She pressed closer to him, and, if it was possible, they became more tightly bound. It was as if they were two souls residing in the same body, one the same, emotion for emotion.



The kiss deepened, and Hermione could feel every slight twitch as he ran his fingertips lightly up and down her shoulder, tugging at her hair, and massaging her jaw. She could feel his lips against her own, could feel them bruising with the force at which they were joined.



Her senses sharpened as her eyes flew open. Her world exploded, and every doubt, every indurate mental trial melted away into nothing. A supernova erupted in her brain, and after what seemed an eternity, they broke apart. She clung to him, to his feel, to his thoughts, until they broke apart and became two people again.



He regarded her seriously; just looking on for a sign.



First, it was her eyes, they warmed. Then her cheeks, then she let out a soft laugh and grinned. A wall fell, a division crumbled, and Hermione smiled.



“Thank you,� she whispered softly, reaching up to touch his cheek.



Ron nodded, enclosing her petite hand in his own. “You know I’m here.�



Hermione nodded, and indicated to freedom. She motioned to a place outside the books, into the real world where they could be together.



*



Months passed and Hermione regained her normal position enough to snap at Ron wearily as he attempted to copy her essays. He simply smiled sheepishly, but his eyes twinkled with knowing.



It was in the Hogwarts grounds on day, near the Great Lake they received a letter address to them.



Ron and Hermione,

I am well. It is not wise to converse in such times, but rest assured you will see me soon. Where, I do not know. I suppose fate will bring us together in our travels.



Ron, a better mate no one could have. You’ve been there from the start, and you’ve helped me to where I am today.



Hermione’s hand shook as she leant against Ron. She could feel his body quivering with tension. Her hands shook as she read from the paper.



Hermione, you told me long ago I shouldn’t be able to fly. According to your laws of gravity, my quest was void. You told me so many things were betting against me, and I replied that at least one should be able to beat the odd and prosper. I remember before my last match, you were there, whispering my ear about a bumblebee. Naturally, I had absolutely no idea what you were on about at the time, but now I understand. You take flight like a bumblebee, Hermione. You fight against the odds. You accomplish your dreams, and Ron and I will always be behind you.



It was signed off simply ‘Harry,’ but Hermione gripped the letter close to her chest, and buried her face in Ron’s shoulder. She wept for her friend, and felt Ron’s hands easing her gently. She knew he was thinking the same along the same lines as she was, and she found comfort in the knowledge her friend was safe and whole.



“Ron?� she murmured.



“Yes, Hermione?� Ron opened his eyes and gazed at the lake.



“Do you think he’s really safe? He’s protected from him, I mean?�



Ron sighed, stroking her hair. He focused his eyes on her nose, which could be seen just out from under her hair. “We’ll never know Hermione.�



“Well, of course we will,� she said, sitting up and touching his face. He looked at her quizzically.

“We’ll be there with him soon enough. We’ll fight with him. He’ll be safe with us,� Hermione said with finality.



Harry couldn't beat Lord Voldemort alone, but now that all three friends were joined mentally, he stood a chance. He could tap into Ron and Hermione's powers in order to strengthen his own magic. They would take on the Dark Lord together as three when the opportunity arose. Together they would rise up against the Dark Lord, and watch him perish beneath their hands.



They would rise up against him in mind, body, and soul.



A/N: This story I now complete. Reviews are very, very nice, but the fact you read my story is very comforting as well. Thank you for sticking around.



Hermione was described as OOC- For confirmation for why she did, you might like to re-read the first chapter, or simply consider- stress can drive you to do many things. :)



Any more faults you find in my story, I would be VERY glad to hear of. This is my very first Hr/R fic, and also my very first D/A.



A note to new writers: When writing, make sure that you read over it again. Spell check isn’t the best, and the best thing you could possibly do is to get yourself a beta. I know from experience! I unfortunately found out the hard way when my spell check changed itself to French, and couldn’t identify anything. ^-^



Thank you for sticking by!

-Steph.