Ron's thoughts were neither joking nor sarcastic as he wearily slumped against the moldy, cracked wall of the abandoned Muggle cottage that was their newest shelter. The old light bulb, under which Hermione was struggling to read, flickered on and off as if a firefly was imprisoned within the glass while it dangled from the ceiling of what must have once been a living room. It was the only inhabitable room in the entire dilapidated ruin. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been jumping houses ever since Bill and Fleur's backyard wedding - never staying in one place too long, but never in a completely isolated area, and using magic sparingly, as it left traces. Only slipping around in broad daylight when they absolutely had to, and always under the cover of Harry's Invisibility Cloak and a few well cast Disillusionment Charms. They had been doing this for nearly nine months now, and finally, they had succeeded.
The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the wand, Ron ticked off on his fingers. The wand - that was the one they hadn't been expecting. It had been Hermione, of course, who had discovered that Rowena Ravenclaw's wand was the only remaining possession of hers, but its whereabouts were unknown. Ron recalled joking that it was probably in Ollivander's shop and had nearly jumped out of his skin when Harry's mouth dropped open and he recited the story of his experience purchasing his own wand, and the single wand that had lay on a cushion in the window of the shop.
And now all of the Horcruxes were destroyed. Well, Nagini was left, but he and Hermione had vowed to a rather reluctant Harry after the destruction of their first Horcrux that they would tackle that great bloody snake and produce a distraction so that Harry could get to Voldemort. It was too mentally and physically taxing for Harry to perform both tasks, even with his best friends at his side.
Harry shook his head stubbornly, "No. You're not coming with me this last time. I'm not dragging you into one of my stupid adventures again.”
"Harry, we're coming with you whether you like it or not. We came this far with you. Did you think that now we'd just sit back and let you fight that “ that thing - and Voldemort all by yourself?" Ron burst out indignantly.
"Ron, this isn't some kind of game. We're not in first year, thinking we can take care of Snape. This is real,” said Harry wearily.
"I know it's real, that's why I'm sticking with you. We'll be by your side, all the time."
Harry opened his mouth to retort but Hermione beat him to it, "It shouldn't be that hard, Harry. If we can get our hands on Gryffindor's sword, we can probably kill Nagini and destroy the Horcrux. It'll be enough of a distraction for you to get to Voldemort, and then, when Ron and I finish, we'll join you."
Harry glanced between Ron and Hermione, and recognizing defeat, slouched back into the overstuffed armchair
"Fine,” he said, and couldn't help but smile slightly at the relieved looks that flitted over there faces.
"So now the only problem is how we'll get to the sword. Professor McGonagall's locked his office…” Hermione trailed off, her brow furrowed. Ron could almost see the wheels churning furiously in her mind.
"We could always ask McGonnagall to unlock it,” Ron suggested.
"No, no, Ron," said Hermione, still lost in thought, "She's suspicious enough as it is.”
"Fawkes will bring it,” came Harry’s voice.
Hermione paused mid-pace and the two of them looked over at Harry, who continued, "He'll come. He'll know when the time is right.”
"But Harry, what if you're not there? Didn't he - didn't Dumbledore say that you're the only one who can wield it?”
"No,” Harry responded, "He said that only a true Gryffindor could use it. And I don't think I've ever met truer Gryffindors than you and Ron.” He gave another small smile.
Hermione's cheeks tinged pink, "Don't be silly." But then she turned, looking Ron straight in the eye, and he could've sworn he saw her mouth, "You, not me.”
From that day, Ron prayed he wouldn't react to that serpent the same way he had in second year. He wasn't about to make a fool of himself again.
He could still vividly remember their encounter with Slytherin's locket.
Hermione's screams rang in his ears as the jewelry emitted a powerful ripple of dark energy, knocking Harry and himself off their feet and hurling them backwards. His body slammed into a tree behind him with a sickening crunch. When he came to, he had eyes only for Hermione, who was sprawled a few good meters away.
"Please don't be dead, please don't be dead, Hermione; please, please don't be dead," he murmured, ignoring the shooting pain in his arm while he brushed the hair away from her pale face. Beside him, Harry frantically checked for a pulse. Finally, after what seemed like eons, but was really only a few heart wrenching seconds, Harry relaxed. He looked up at Ron, a ghost of a smile pervading his somber features.
"She's going to be okay.”
They were the best five words he had ever heard.
She had survived, miraculously. But Ron had always known she was a fighter; he had experienced it first-hand on numerous occasions. And the Shield Charm she had desperately cast had to have had some effect. The events following their arrival at 12 Grimmauld Place, with her unconscious form in his arms, were a blur of questions, his mum's screams (and incidentally - Mrs. Black's), and worried glances. And waiting, waiting for five long days by her bedside, an Order Healer constantly bustling about, hoping that she really would make it. She hadn't failed him; she never did. He glanced up at her face on that fifth day, his hope slowly dwindling, and saw her furiously blinking her eyes - blinking back tears or in pain, he couldn't say- all he knew was that he had never felt more relieved in his whole life. Even after his father had lived through the snake wound or when Harry had dragged Ginny out of the Chamber, nothing had matched this experience. The change in all of them after that had been subtle, but it was there all the same. He had first realized it on the day of Hermione's wakening.
The three of them were in her room, which was awash with the brilliant morning light. Hermione's eyes were closed because they hurt too much, but she was awake all the same. Ron watched her as Harry read the paper from his seat atop the old oak desk.
"The explosions in the countryside that roused numerous Muggles and wizards alike nearly five days ago are alleged to be a rather fiery test batch of the newest fireworks from the notorious joke shop, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes."
Ron let out a hollow laugh, tipping his chair forward so that all four rickety legs rested on the floor. Normally, he would have joked at the tidbit of news, but now, knowing the real story behind those "fireworks", no humor could be found in the excerpt.
Somehow, somewhere in those five days, he had grown up a little. Perhaps it was because the danger of their mission had quite rudely slapped him in the face. He still cracked jokes, still let the twins get a rise out of him, still nagged Hermione. But deep down, he knew that what had happened that fateful April night had changed him forever. It was that change that made him want to voice the heartfelt remarks that he had kept inside for so long.
Once, he had looked on as Hermione sadly traced the scar that rung around her neck. "I still think you're beautiful," he had wanted to blurt impulsively from the doorway.
But she had straightened as he entered the room, her eyes gleaming with determination. Determination, yes, but it was also a façade for the fiery anger that raged in her. He could tell it was thriving by the fervor in which she sifted through dusty tomes, taught them of novel methods to cripple Dark Magic, and in the way her eyes flashed when she spoke - to anyone. When an Order member had made the mistake of mentioning her accident, Ron had leapt up, ready to throttle that insensitive git, but Hermione had ran her fingers along the relic of that fateful night, more calmly this time. The air of mourning for the looks she once had vanished, replaced by pride in what she had accomplished and a thirst to achieve more.
Ron could easily relate to her anger, which ran deeper in their veins than petty comments and snide remarks. It was the white-hot rage he felt when he came across photos of Malfoy and Snape pasted onto shop windows or when the Death Eaters had ambushed the Burrow in expectations of interrupting an Order meeting. It was at those times that he would foolishly wish that Voldemort was conveniently nearby. But he had long ago accepted that to be Harry's destiny.
There wasn't a time that Ron could recall not being the slightest bit jealous of Harry, but he had always promised that he wouldn't let that get in the way of their friendship. That was until the Tri-wizard Tournament, of course, when once again Harry had beaten Ron at something he could never hope to be. It was only after his best friend had emerged from the maze, clutching the body of Cedric Diggory that the jealousy began to wane. But still, even then, he could be charged guilty with wanting a bit of the fame that Harry had. That is, until Harry repeated the prophecy that tied him to Voldemort. Ron remembered wondering what it was like to live that kind of life, to know that in the end you had the choice to kill or be killed. It was the life of a marked man, and it separated Harry ever so slightly from himself, Hermione, and his family. That was when Ron had truly stopped wishing he was Harry, and began to try to understand his role in the whole scheme of things. Yet even now, he still couldn't help but envy Harry's Quidditch skills.
Harry would always be the noble, selfless, rash hero. Hermione would be the one to slow things down and think it all through. She was the logic and the brains in their threesome. As for Ron…he still wasn't quite sure what he did; mostly, he provided a bit of comic relief for them. Yet in the end, wasn't that really Fred and George's job? He was just the sidekick. Nonetheless, it started to dawn on him towards the end of last year that he, not the fanciable Mr. Potter, not smarmy Quidditch star, Krum, it was him, plain old Ron Weasley, who would get the girl. He smiled as he imagined Hermione's indignant retort to those words ( "I am not some kind of accessory that can be owned!")
Yes, and if Hermione, being the brightest witch of our age, sees something in me, well, maybe I'm someone special after all, he thought.
Most of his time with Hermione was undoubtedly the most splendid moments of his life. He had thought that her feelings for him were fairly strong, and knowing that someone that amazing loved him for being - well, himself, there was simply no sensation that could compete with such adoration and gratitude. Not even flying. He had been downright positive that things were going to change for them this year. Bit stupid of him, really, to believe that they would be able to manage anything while tromping all over the country. But after all the promising events of their 6th year, he couldn't be blamed for his more-than-wishful thinking. Their little chat in the hospital wing - with implications of non-platonic feelings injected into every other sentence, how badly she'd taken the whole Lavender affair and how she was nearly skipping after his breakup, the day when she'd asked him to Slughorn's party, and when he had held her, held her and stroked her hair and cried into those beautifully wild waves as her tears wet his robes during the funeral of their Headmaster. They were all actions that assured him of new beginnings. And then, the week had come when he could nearly see a turning point in their friendship.
She sat in their old Gryffindor common room, shaking fingers unraveling the bandage on her hands. Her face remained expressionless at the sight of the burnt, slashed flesh of her fingers and palm, which had resulted from her thankfully successful attempts at unclasping the smoldering necklace while purging it of Voldemort's tortured soul. Hermione slipped her hands into the bowl of murtlap essence at her side and sat like so for nearly an hour, the charmed pages of the book flipping in her lap. Upon withdrawing her hands, she glanced about for the bottle of thick orange paste and her face fell as she realized that for once, she had forgotten to plan ahead.
"Ron…" she whispered, but he was already there. Unscrewing the cap, he simply said, "Let me." He felt her eyes watching him as he bent his head over her hands, meticulously applying the viscous substance onto her wounds.
It had carried on until new skin began to grow. He tried his hardest to let her know, without speaking, that he was helping her because he wanted to. He looked forward to those minutes in the common room, when it was just the two of them and the fire crackling merrily. Sometimes she spoke - of how she wished they all lived normal wizarding lives, how she wondered about her parents, how she hoped that this would all be over soon. Essentially, she spilled many of her fears to him on those nights. He always stayed late in the common room even after her complete recovery, hoping she would appear. She never did, though; she always retired early. She no longer confided in him in that special, quiet, very much not like Hermione voice, and immersed herself in Horcruxes and Harry.
By the time Christmas had come and gone, Ron was vastly in the mood to stomp up to her bedroom door at Grimmauld Place, knock it down, and demand what the bloody hell was going on with her. However, her reaction had swiftly come to his mind - a blushing Hermione who somehow managed to keep a steady voice and firmly but patiently explain that now was not the time. So when he had rapped on her door subconsciously, for he was rather preoccupied with his thoughts, Hermione answered it, only to find a very sheepish Ron who quickly stammered out, "Dinner," and scuttled away, face burning, quite aware of the fact that it was only three in the afternoon.
They continued to grow apart, and it nearly killed him. Once more he became the frustrated eleven year old who was constantly overshadowed by his brothers, the fourteen year old who was sick of Harry's spotlight, and the dejected fifteen year-old after his first real Quidditch match. It had been like this when he started getting off with Lavender, with his self-esteem at its lowest low; the things Hermione had said made him confused, miserable and aggravated all at once. He took advantage of Lavender's obvious attraction to him. At least she wasn't sending mixed signals or going on about how good other blokes looked. Then Ron began to ponder if perhaps he hadn't proved his love to Hermione enough. He knew he didn't have a lot of money, so buying something fancy was almost always out of the question, but he had assumed that Hermione always overlooked that. Then again, she deserved the best, not what someone without two Galleons of his own to rub together could give.
That would have been his diagnosis of her sudden withdrawal, except for the fact that he was quitee certain his family's poverty had never been a matter of importance and Hermione wasn't the type to put money over personality qualities. It was more of a Slytherin trait. So, what else did he have to? He'd done all the chivalrous deeds; he'd stuck by her side - after all, wasn't that how she measured love?
Harry had arrived moments ago and already Ron could tell that something was off. He and Hermione shared a look; they had known Harry would be nothing short of furious when he came to Order Headquarters. Ron knew his best mate well enough to tell that right now, a violent outburst was just bubbling heatedly under Harry's false casual demeanor.
"Maybe he thinks I can't be trusted," came Harry's voice.
Ron was taken aback. Dumbledore not trust Harry? "Don't be thick," he said.
"Or that I can't take care of myself “ ”
"Of course he doesn't think that!” said Hermione anxiously.
"So how come I have to stay at the Dursleys' while you two get to join in everything that's going on here?” Harry's volume was steadily increasing. "How come you two are allowed to know everything that's going on - ?"
Ron butted in, "We're not! Mum won't let us near the meetings, she says we're too young “ ”
But apparently Ron's comment had only further instigated Harry's anger. "SO YOU HAVEN'T BEEN IN THE MEETINGS, BIG DEAL! YOU'VE STILL BEEN HERE, HAVEN'T YOU? YOU'VE STILL BEEN TOGETHER! ME, I'VE BEEN STUCK AT THE DURSLEYS' FOR A MONTH! AND I'VE HANDLED MORE THAN YOU TWO'VE EVER MANAGED AND DUMBLEDORE KNOWS IT - WHO SAVED THE SORCERER'S STONE? WHO GOT RID OF RIDDLE? WHO SAVED BOTH YOUR SKINS FROM THE DEMENTORS? WHO HAD TO GET PAST DRAGONS AND SPHINXES AND EVERY OTHER FOUL THING LAST YEAR? WHO SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE FROM HIM? ME!"
Ron felt as though his jaw would drop off his skull. He was stunned at the extent of Harry's bitterness and the racket he was making.
Hours later, he lay in his bed, mulling over the rather informational talk given that evening, when his mind suddenly churned back to Harry's rant upon arrival. Harry’s last words were branded into his mind.
Just because you've done all those brave deeds doesn't make you a better person than Hermione or me. Would you even have been alive if it wasn't for us? Ron was ashamed of his resentful thoughts, but they kept on coming. Who sacrificed himself to the White Queen so you could get to the Stone? Who figured out which potion would see you through each fire? Who found out that it was a Basilisk that was terrorizing the school? Who stuck with you when we went down to the Chamber of Secrets? Who was willing to sacrifice our lives for yours? Who got you through the first task in the Tournament? Who made a fool of himself with you during the Yule Ball? Who supported you when you said Voldemort was back? Who introduced you to the Wizarding World? Who's let you become part of his family? Me! Hermione and myself! We've done things too, you know! We've been through dangers that adults struggle with! We could've backed out whenever we wanted to, BUT WE NEVER DID, EVEN WHEN YOU ASKED US TO! WE'VE STUCK BY YOU HARRY, AND IF YOU CAN'T APPRECIATE THAT, THEN MAYBE YOUR NOT AS DESERVING AS WE THINK!
And with his mind reeling, Ron slowly succumbed to sleep.
I get it now, Hermione, thought Ron as he ran his hand through his sweaty hair. I've gotten it for a while, really. It's not that I haven't proven myself to you. It's not that I don't love you enough, or can't promise you a future of luxury. I don't think you're even thinking about the future. You're thinking about now. You're trying to be like Harry, in the way that he's protecting Ginny. It's not going to work though, and you know it.
The smell of flowers lingered heavily in the air, and the musicians hired by Fleur's family were playing away. Ron's senses were barely open to those tiny details, though. Right now, he was dancing with Hermione, and he wanted to revel in the feeling of having her in his arms, her pink dress robes swishing softly. They didn't dance so much as sway, though hardly anyone would laugh, seeing as the rest of the guests were moving similarly. In the last moments of the song, as the music began to fade, Hermione reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him as though he might die tomorrow and she would never see him again.
…as though he might die tomorrow…
Instantly, Ron's mind came to a conclusion. They had been putting this off, beating around the bush for far too long. He might very well die tomorrow, or the next day, or perhaps next week. No one could tell him when; no one could tell him how many hours he had left. Whatever life was given to him was his own. He could run with it or he could sit back and watch the days fly by. And Ron was quite sure at that moment that he would try his hardest to live in the time he got. He rose from his corner, and saw Hermione look up at him inquisitively. Answering with a smile, he strode towards her, his step not faltering for a moment because it was something he would have to face. At least he was given the chance to do it now instead of when it was too late.
Right now, there's too many things that I'll never know. But if there's one thing I'm certain of, there's no way I'm letting Voldemort or some war get in the way of the love we have for each other - not anymore.
End Part One.
A/N: This is my first fanfic at MNFF; I hope you all enjoyed it! Endless thanks goes to my beta, victoriaweasley, for her wonderful insight! This chapter was inspired by Clay Aiken's song, Measure of a Man, which I think fits Ron's character very well. I've decided to leave it as a one-shot