âOf course, dear!â Mrs. Weasley cooed, smiling lovingly and jumping instantly from her place at the table to tend to her sick child.
Hermione cleared her throat, her tone stiffly business-like. âActually, I donât think sugar is a good idea, Mrs. Weasley. TheâŚproperties of the lavender and pepper would be neutralized by the--chemical make up of the sugar. Such a reaction would make the tea positively useless in curing hisâŚwhat was the name of it again, Ronald?â
âErm⌠I donât think they have a name for it yetâŚâ he stuttered, his hands shaking with frustration.
âHmm. Anyway, Iâm sure we all want Ron cured of hisâŚnameless disease, so letting him have sugar in his tea would be contradictory to our goal.â Hermione avoided Ronâs eyes as she took a sip of her juice, but Ron thought he saw her tip her glass to him slightly. Draining her goblet of lemonade, Hermione smiled in Ronâs general direction. âCheers, to good health.â
Ron scowled and raised his goblet to her. âCheersâŚâ he muttered before downing the tea in one swig, grimacing unpleasantly.
âRight, rightâŚ!â Mrs. Weasley said brightly, pouring some more tea into Ronâs goblet. Ron sent a venomous glance towards George, who shrugged in an apologetic way.
He didnât know what he would have rathered, if given the choice; George covering for him by making his mum think he had some sort of magical flu, therefore causing Hermione to figure it out and hate him; or Hermione discovering the locket before he knew what to say to her and finding out she fancied Krum over him, being embarrassed and ashamed beyond all comprehension, and possibly ruining their friendship for good.
The first one. Hands downâŚexcept for the Hermione hating me partâŚI could have done without that⌠Ron pushed his peas around his plate with his fork, not very hungry at the moment. âCan I be excused?â he asked after taking another swig of tea.
Mrs. Weasleyâs face softened as she levitated Ronâs plate over to the counter. âOf course, dear. Youâre probably very tired. Head on upstairsâŚâ
Ron felt Hermioneâs eyes on him as he stood from his chair; he could feel her gaze burning his skin like fire until at last he closed the door behind him. With a very unpleasant aftertaste lingering in his mouth, Ron made his way up the rickety staircase. Not onceâ”not once in his whole life had anything gone completely right for him. Whenever that timid damsel Hope peeked from behind her hiding place, someone or something had to ruin it, and scare her back into her secluded den.
Yesterday had been a wonderful day, yes. Everything had gone as plannedâ”possibly even better than he had planned. But less than 24 hours later it had all been ruined. He wasnât even back at square one. What with Hermione hating himâ”which he thought extremely peculiar, as he could not remember another time she had been so very cross with him over something as trivial as a, well, not a prank. A simple fib, perhapsâ”nevertheless he was back in the negative numbers; square negative seven.
At long last he reached his bedroom door and he pushed it open, closing it behind him carelessly. His un-made bed called to him, saying âSleep, Ron. Sleep will make everything better.â Though he knew it was a cruel lie, he threw himself upon the mattress, not bothering to change out of his robes. Within moments sleep had taken him.
âIâll get it!â He called to nobody in particular, throwing himself off the couch and bounding towards the door, the doorbellâs random notes chiming in an offbeat tune. It was unusual for people to use the front door, or even to ring the doorbell; usually they just walked in and announced their presence. Ron opened the door cautiously at first, but swung it open seconds later as his eyes looked into those of his best friend. âHarry!â he exclaimed, immediately relieving Harry of the birdcage he cradled in his arms. âWhat are you doing here so early, mate? I didnât expect you for a while, now.â He stepped back and motioned for Harry to make himself comfortable.
âDidnât she tell you?â Harry asked, dragging his trunk into the Weasleyâs den. âHermione wrote a letter to me a few days ago, inviting me. She said that everything was ready, and that Dumbledore said it would be okay if I came⌠I canât believe she didnât tell youâŚâ He sat in a torn armchair next to the fireplace, using his trunk as a footstool.
Ron turned to close the door, having set Hedwigâs empty cage on the floor next to an unused coat rack. âNo, she didnât. She has't really said much of anyhting to me, really. Weâve had a row, you seeâŚâ
âAh. What else is new?â Harry replied sarcastically.
Ron shook his head, unaware of the sarcasm, and returned to his place on the couch. âNothing, reallyâŚâ Well, something was newâ”and it was lying safely hidden in his sock drawer. âActually, there is something.â
Harry leaned forward, sensitive to his friendâs uncharacteristically solemn tone. âIs everything alr--â
âYou made it!â Hermione called from the bottom of the staircase, beaming. She walked over to Harry and threw her arms around him, hugging him briefly. âHave a good trip?â the girl asked when she pulled away.
âYes, excellent. Thanks,â Harry replied with a smile. But then his face hardened. âHow come you didnât tell Ron I was coming, Hermione? I mean, the others know I'm here, don't they? Mrs. Weasley and them?"
Hermione looked indignant. "Of course! I wouldn't have sent for you without proper permission--you know that!"
"So, it's just another lover's tiff, then, this thing between you and R--"
âHungry, Harry?â Ron interrupted, leaping to his feet. âIâll go fetch some biscuits from the kitchen, maybe? Mum's just baked a batch of pies, you know!â He cast Harry a meaningful look and dodged through the kitchen door, leaving it carefully ajar.
âSo you made it here okay?â Hermione continued, apparently oblivious to the fact Ron had left. âYou werenât swarmed by a bunch of screaming fans, were you?â she joked.
Ron furrowed his brow in confusion as he opened and closed the cupboards in search of biscuits, curiously only able to find large jars of pickles; even his mother's pies smelled sickly sour. He pondered this for a moment, but pushed it to the back of his mind and continued to listen in.
âNo, no. Not this time,â Harry replied, his voice deeper than Ron remembered it. Ron could hear the smile in his friendâs voice at his next statement, despite how deep puberty(as Ron reasoned) had changed his tone âThere are being no Quidditch Supply stores near here, you see. Therefore, there are being no mobs of âscreaming fansâ to hinder my traveling. This place--ze Burrow, you have called it, yes?--it is being far away from ze hubbub of cities such as Hogsmeade, eh?â
Ron dropped the jar of pickles he was holding, allowing it to crash noiselessly onto the hard wooden floor, upon which it shattered and sent the salty cucumbers scuttling freely upon the surface. âBloody hellâŚâ He turned on his heel and wrenched open the kitchen door. âBloodyâŚbleeding hell! What are you doing in my living room?!â Ron glared at the young man sitting where Harry sat only seconds earlier. Out of the corner or his eye, he noticed that his friendâs belongings were also missing.
Hermione laughed and leaned back against the sofa, crossing her legs neatly at the ankle. âIt's part of the charm of this place, really.... And, how is your elbow doing?"
Changing his glare to face Hermione, Ron clenched his fists. âHermione? What the bloody hell is Viktor Krum doing in my living room!?â
The Bulgarian stretched his left arm tentatively. âIt is feeling much better, thank you⌠Are you ready to be leaving? I am sorry to be rushing you, but the gates do close at curfew, Herm-own-ninnyâŚâ
Hermione stood and smiled, ignoring Ron. âOh, I understand perfectly. I would expect security is tight everywhere, these days.â
Letting out a bellow of fury, Ron stomped his foot like a young child throwing a temper tantrum. He turned on his heel and pointed sternly at the young Quidditch player. âYou. Out. Get out of my house. NOW!â
âGood. Vell then. Shall we?â Viktor stood and made for the door, Hermione close behind him.
âNo!â Ron shouted. âHermione not youâ”just that filthy toerag. You stay. Hermione!â
âOh. I vas almost forgetting. â Viktor stopped halfway through the door and plunged a gnarled hand into the pocket of his scarlet robes, seconds later pulling out something long and shiny. Ronâs eyes bulged as he spotted the clouded silver heart dangling from the ever so familiar sterling chain, and he let out another horrific shout.
Hermione gasped and put a dainty hand over her mouth. âNo, Viktor⌠I couldnâtâŚâ
The man smiled crookedly. âAnd why is that being? Please, Herm-own-ninny. Accept it as not a gift, but as a token of our love, yes?â
Ron slammed his fist against the wall as Hermione emitted a sound somewhere between a sob and a giggle. âOh, but it must have cost a fortune, ViktorâŚ!â
âNo expense is to be spared for you, Herm-own-ninny. Turn around so that I may help you in putting it on.â Viktor motioned with his hand for Hermione to turn around. She did so, and lifted her hair away from her neck, smiling brightly. âZis clasp, it is trickyâŚâ he muttered in a strained tone. Ron took his eyes off of Hermione to look at Viktor, and was surprised not to see him struggling with the silver chain, but instead pocketing the necklace. Viktor reached inside his robes, fumbling to find his wand.
â WhatâŚ? Hermione!â Ron shouted as the Bulgarian rolled up his sleeves. âMove!â
âDo you need help with it, Viktor?â Hermione asked playfully, oblivious to Ronâs shouts.
âNo, no. I think I am almost getting itâŚâ Viktor muttered, taking a step back and extending his arm. The last thing Ron saw before he lunged at the man was the tip of the Bulgarianâs wand mere centimeters from Hermioneâs back, aimed at her heart; the first thing he saw after attempting to attack Viktor was the brick fireplace he hit instead.
Ignoring the pulsing pain in his forehead, Ron reached for Hermioneâs robes, trying to pull her away; but his hands passed right through her robes just as they did Viktorâs body. Frustrated, Ron stood, drawing out his own wand. Hand trembling with fury, he aimed it at the brawny Quidditch player. âTarantangula! Petrificusâ”ARGH!â
Viktor seemed to not have noticed Ronâs attempts at jinxing him. âActually, Hermy-own-ninny. I am thinking I might be needing your helpâŚâ
Hermione laughed brightly and turned around.
âNo! Hermione, move! Heâs going toâ”FLIPENDO! RICTUSEMPRA! No, donât turn--â The pure terror Ron saw in her eyes broke his heart. Hermione seemed petrified with fear, unable to speak or move. Her chocolate eyes stayed planted on Viktorâs face, their expression saying more than words ever could.
Viktorâs mouth curled into a crooked grin. âAdvada Kada--â
âHERMIONE!â Ron leaped in front of Hermione and spread his arms as Viktor completed the incantation. He felt the curse blow through him like an icy gust of wind, and closed his eyes tight against the emerald light. The sound of hoarse laughter reached his ears, and Ron opened his eyes tentatively, first one and then the other. Just as he had passed through Viktor as if he was made of air, the spell had passed through Ron and hitâ”
âHermioneâŚâ His face growing red with fury, Ron fell to his knees beside the girlâs limp body. Her face was frozen in a terrified expression; her mouth agape and her eyes wide open, yet somehow lifeless. He swallowed hard as a stray tear trickled down Hermioneâs pale cheek.
Nostrils flaring, Ron stood to face Viktor. âYouâŚ!â But Viktor said nothing. A smile still on his face, Krum pocketed his wand, and stepped over Hermioneâs limp body, the toe of his pointed leather boot grazing her cheek. âYou killed her! You filthy, rotten, worthless pile of scum! She trusted youâ”she might have even loâ”you KILLED HER!â Ron stalked after Viktor as he walked out the front door. âDid you see her face? One moment she was having the time of her life, Krum! And then, Hermioneâ”YOU KILLED HER!â
As the Bulgarian summoned a broom from the shed at the opposite side of the yard, Ron continued to shout insults at him, too furious to shed the tears that burned in the corners of his eyes. âDonât ignore me, Viktor! Stand and fight like a man, you ruddy cowardâŚ!â Viktor mounted the broom and blew a kiss in the direction of the front door, where Hermioneâs lifeless body was still visible.
Ron fell to his knees and slammed his fists on ground as Viktor Krum, star Quidditch player of Bulgaria and Englandâs newest deranged murderer, flew off into the distance. For a while Ron just sat there, unable to think or speak or breathe. His stillness was so complete that a handful of brave chickens had made their way over to him, and were pecking at his robes. Ron looked to the nearest chicken, blue eyes full of pain. âHe killed her âŚI couldnât help her, and he justâŚkilled herâŚâ
âRonâŚâ the chicken clucked in response, looking at him with its beady little eyes. âRonâŚRon!RON!â
âPoking him isnât working. Slap him,â spoke a second chicken.
The chickens stopped pecking at him, and turned to face each other as if they were readying themselves for a cockfight. âBut couldnât that put him into shock, if he wakes up too quickly? I think I heard about that som--â
âWho cares?â
ââŚGood point. Would you like the honor, dear brother?â
Ron blinked, staring at the two birds. âSure...The chickens can see me. If Hermione could have even just heard me, thenâŚâ
âWhy thank you; youâre too kind. It would be my immense pleasure!â
â Its all my fa--OY!â Ron opened his eyes, clutching the spot on his face where the chicken had stricken him.
He sat up, suddenly wide-awake; It was not the stinging sensation on his cheek, though, that helped to wake him up a bit, but the revelation that it had all been a dream. âWhat, whatâs wrong?â he asked, looking from George to Fred and back.
âYou are, mateâŚâ Fred stuttered through a yawn. âYou wouldnât shut up.â
George nodded. âYou were screeching and shouting in your sleepâ”its amazing nobody else heard youâŚâ he added, rubbing his eyes lazily.
âBut you were shouting odd things about Krum being in our living room, and that he had killed someone,â Fred continued with a slight smirk, âSo we figured weâd come up here and end your sufferingâŚâ
âAnd so here we are. Well, youâre awake now. Youâve stopped screaming; our jobâs done.â George stood and yawned widely. âUnless youâd like us to fix you a cup of warm milkâŚ?â he added sarcastically.
âNo, noâŚâ Ron stuttered awkwardly.
âEven sing you a lullaby?â Fred offered.
âIâd suggest a teddy bear, but somehow I donât think itâs a stuffed animal youâd fancy cuddling up toâŚâ
Ron shook his head, choosing to ignore his brothersâ snide comments. He thought of what might have happened if anyone but the twins had come up to wake him; what would they have heard, and what would they have made of it? What if it had been Hermione? â ErmâŚsorry, mates. Thanks forâŚfor waking me upâŚâ
âOh, no, donât thank us. We should be thanking you; why should we waste a third of our lives sleeping, anyway?â
âBesides,â Fred added in a groggy slur, âGetting to smack you in the face was quite thanks enough.â
âWell, weâre off to bed then,â George muttered, staggering towards the open door.
Fred followed after him. âBut if we have to come up here again, we wonât be as gentle, got it?â Ron nodded moodily as his brother closed the door behind him.
Echoes of the dream still lingered in his mind, making it impossible for Ron to fall back asleep. The fact that the tin box was hidden under his pillow didnât help either. Checking his watch, Ron found the time to be three thirty in the morning. He sighed, knowing that there would be no way he would get back to sleep before the sun came up, and pulled the mutilated tin box from its resting place. He traced his finger along the scars he had left upon the box the night before, wondering whether he would ever work up the courage to give Hermione the necklace, let alone risk engraving it.
The dream had instilled in him a sense of urgency, and, filled with reckless energy left over from the nightmare, Ron felt he had to do something. He didnât want to stand by and do nothing any moreâ”he had seen what little good that did. And while Hermione probably wouldnât die if he didnât give her the necklace, Ron couldnât help but feel that every second he delayed, time was ticking closer and closer to the time where Hermione would be dead-- to him at least.
For a moment, he wondered whether that made any sense, coming to the conclusion that he wasnât in the mood to draw a logical conclusion. Ron stood and strode over to his sock drawer, careful not to make a sound. Even in the dark, it was easy to locate the cool silver chain of the locket amongst the dozen or so moth-eaten sock balls, and within moments he was sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. Not daring to turn on the lamp for a bit of light, Ron raked his brain, trying to remember the incantation. He wished he still had Hermioneâs Charmâs book.
âWhat was itâŚ?â he muttered under his breath, staring at the moonlight reflected on the locketâs smooth surface. âMucris⌠Mucris what? Mucris, a broomâŚ? AbrumâŚ. Mucris Abrum. Glorifiche Argentus!â He grinned broadly as the tip of his wand burned a familiar cobalt blue, his heart pounding. This was it. There was no turning back. I either have to do it right the first timeâ”sitting here, on the floor, in the dark, half asleep--or melt down the silver and hand Hermione a nice shiny blob. No pressure.
With a deep breath, Ron bent his head and, holding his wand like a quill, touched the little ball of blue fire to the metal. It made a soft whistling sound upon contact, but the noise was pleasant, almost comforting, as if the silver was singing its approval.
About five minutes later, Ron extinguished his wand, squinting at the little locket. He had no way of telling how horribly the teaspoon had come out, but the fact the locket hadnât imploded was a good sign. Delicately lifting the still warm locket into his hands, Ron stood, ignoring the protestant cramps from his stiff legs. Smiling, he stumbled back over to his bed and plopped down on the mattress, running his fingers over the surface of the locket.
Tomorrow morning, he decided. Tomorrow morning, afterâ”no, before breakfast, heâd pull her off to the side, maybe out into the garden. Then heâd explain everything to her. About Elma and Viktor; about the burns on his hands and the fake disease. After a minute or two, it wouldnât matter that Hermione was mad at him, because heâd pull the necklace out of his pocket and hand it to her. Then everything would be all right. Better than all right. Excellent.
He twirled the necklace around his fingers absentmindedly, unaware that the chain had looped itself around his wrist several times over.
Unless,he thought miserably, frowning as anxiety flooded his mind. Unless Hermione tells me sheâs in love with Viktor, or that Iâm too overly git-like for her. And then sheâd snatch the necklace out of my hands and stamp on it, laughing all the while⌠Ronâs ears had turned red just from thinking about it, and his eyes began to sting as he stared blankly at the mutilated tin box.
It was several minutes before he opened the box and took out the picture of Harry, Hermione and himself, if only to occupy his hands.
We were all so happy, then. Ron thought as he watched Hermione swat Harryâs hand, scowling playfully at him for making bunny ears behind her head. Pigwidgeon was perched in a regal pose atop picture-Ronâs head, Crookshanks eyeing the owl with a lusty look. Harry still had SiriusâŚHermione didnât hate meâŚeverything was so simple⌠The people in the picture seemed to have reacted to some sort of prompting, for all the goofing around stopped and they looked straight ahead, smiling and waving brightly at the camera.
Hermione wasnât going out with Krum⌠Percy wasnât a pratâŚwell, at least not a big of one as he is now⌠Ron fingered the edges of the picture, unsurprised to find the border crisp, almost as sharp as if the photo had just come out of the camera; he didnât often disturb the little tin box, and hence had not given the photo a chance to wear or crinkle with evidence of rough handling.
âI didnât feel so strongly about Hermione, back thenâŚâ Ron flinched horribly, startled by his own voice; he hadnât meant to think aloud. That proved just how tired he was.
Blinking drowsily, it took Ron a moment to realize that, in his panic, the flawless photo he held in his freckled hands had torn down the middle. He sniffed angrily and swallowed the urge to swear, his fingers trembling.
Harry had jumped out of the way before he had had the chance to be ripped in half, and was now glaring at Ron from the picture, giving him a rude hand gesture or two from picture-Ronâs half of the photo. With a kind of sick half-amusement, Ron watched as Harry stormed out of the photo, leaving only Hermione in his left hand, and himself in his right. So this is how it is, then? Ron thought to himself, looking from one half of the picture to the other.
He couldnât help but notice that he and Hermione seemed rather far apart now, separated by a vista of nothingness. He threw the pieces of the photo to the floor, watching them glide and spin in the draft that was coming from his open window. They landed lightly on the floor and skidded off in different directions; Ronâs half sliding under the bed, Hermioneâs skidding towards the door.
With a frustrated grunt, he rolled over in bed, pulling the covers up over his head to drown out the hooting of an owl outside his window. Ron didnât need Trelawney breathing down his neck to realize that the ripped photograph was a sign. A sign of imminent doomâŚfiguratively, anyways. It was all rather hopeless, though, wasnât it? Who had he been fooling? No one. No one but himself and that sweet short woman, Elma. It was time to move on.
I don't deserve her, anyway, he thought, rolling over and pulling his Chudley Cannons comforter up to his chin. Brains, heart of gold, and--that smile... She deserves someone like Krum-- handsome, rich, and famous-- who knows what he wants and how to get it... Not some hopeless, mediocre troll who spends two or three years saving up a whopping thirteen galleons, and then blows it on some boyish ideal...
Gradually, his breaths slowed, and sleep greeted Ron once more, the dream and the necklace forgotten. This time, the redheadâs dreams did not disturb him. After all, what was disturbing about having evening tea with Fleur Delacour?