Hurt and Comfort
“But Hermione and I agreed …”
“Do you mean, ‘Hermione and I agreed,’ or ‘Hermione’s making me and I have no choice but to bow to her whims if I want to get shagged any time soon’?” smirked Seamus Finnigan the next day. Seamus, along with Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom, had arrived that morning and had wasted no time, not even bothering to enter the house fully, before voicing their request, quickly getting David in on their plan with them.
“She’ll kill me! I don’t want to be killed two days before my wedding,” Ron argued.
“It’ll be fine, Ron,” said Dave. Neville and Dean nodded in agreement. Forgotten for the moment, John watched the whole exchange with wary eyes.
“This is Hermione we’re talking about! You do remember Hermione, don’t you?”
“Don’t be stupid, Ron,” scoffed Dean, and Ron shot him a death glare.
“Of course we remember,” Neville sympathised. “Which is why we’re going two days before the wedding and not the day before. You can be hung over tomorrow and be perfectly fine by Tuesday.”
“And how ‘bout my mother. Did you think about what she’ll think about this too?”
“We can do this either the hard way or the easy way,” said Seamus irritably, all teasing in his voice gone. “You can go easily and spend one night of fun with your friends, or we can--”
“All right. All right!” Ron waved both hands in front of him like he was stopping traffic. “But if you think I’m happy about this, than you are sorely mistaken.”
Unfazed, George grinned up at his younger brother from his seat at the kitchen table, enjoying the younger wizards’ antics, little Fred Jr. on his lap. “That’s the spirit, Ronniekins! Don’t let them get you down.”
After dinner that night, David and Ron’s three former roommates all proceeded to drag a reluctant Ron out of the front door. As predicted, neither Hermione nor Molly Weasley were at all happy at the mention of their plans for that night, but even they quickly conceded under the encouragement of an amused Mr Weasley, who took it upon himself to say as they headed out the door, “They only get to live once, girls; let them have a little fun along the way.” Anxious and embarrassed, John held back, not wanting to come in the way of the friends’ fun, but as he passed him, David grabbed the neck of his jumper and pulled John along too.
The Muggle bar that Dean had picked out for the occasion was called The Heartless Harlot and it was a small, shady pub on the opposite outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole as to where the Burrow was located. Built of dark brick, with even darker shades on all the windows and a chipped black door that failed to even hang on the hinges straight, the place didn’t appear to be in running condition until Seamus, leading the way, pushed through the door and the confused buzz of many loud voices burst out.
“So, six Firewhiskeys, then, huh?” asked Ron in a weak voice.
David laughed, “Have you ever been to a Muggle bar Ron?”
“Don’t fret, I’ve got this covered.” And Dean strolled casually over to the counter, smiling charmingly at the scantily clad waitress who was cleaning the mugs with a grimy rag. The others found a seat while they were waiting and not five minutes later, Dean reappeared with six clear glasses filled with an amber liquid. John stared at it distrusting, but everyone else seemed eager at the challenge. He had never been that good at holding his liquor the few times that he had gone out after work with David, and he doubted he’d be much better now.
“It’s Scotch,” Dean answered everyone’s wordless question. “Not as good as Firewhiskey, but it’ll do the trick.”
Neville, surprisingly (at least to John), was the first to raise his glass. He held it in the air, the dark orange-yellow drink lapping at the sides of its clear prison, and said in a firm voice, “To Ron and Hermione - we wish you a long and happy life together!”
“Hear, hear!” Five more glasses came together and clinked soundly against the first; then their holders brought them down again and, as one, downed their contents. When each glass was empty and the friends were all wearing similar satisfied grins, the glasses met the table again, the expected clunk lost amidst all the noise.
After that, the afternoon blended effortlessly into the night and the cheery gang was still there, a collection of glasses covering the middle of the table, and more ones still full in front of each of the men as they readied one of their own for married life.
Neville, being the only one of the six actually married, to Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff no less, had seemed to take it upon himself to doling out “helpful” tips on what to expect from your wife; he wasn’t doing a very good job though, as his words all seemed to slur together and he could hardly keep his head up straight. The others were not much better: Dean was laughing uncontrollably at nothing in particular; David and Ron both looked sick, their faces green; and Seamus seemed to believe that the rather hairy man in the corner was, in fact, a woman, and was preoccupied with hitting on “her”. John also felt rather light-headed and he imagined that he looked no better than Ron and Dave did.
“And when they ask you to do something,” Neville said louder than was necessary, taking caution to pronounce every word perfectly, “they don’t mean to do it later; they mean right then. You see, Ron, that’s the key to a good marriage: always do as they say!”
Ron nodded his head seriously. Dean, still guffawing ridiculously, looked round at his fellows and added, “Marriage? Who’s getting married? I love weddings! Lots of hot bridesmaids to sleep with after!”
Seamus lost interest in the hairy man quickly. “Yes, hot bridesmaids are always good.”
Ron was not as excited about the turn this conversation had gone and he shot daggers with his eyes at Dean and Seamus. “The only bridesmaid will be my sister and, I promise you on ol’ Merlin’s “ ”
“Yes, all right, Ron; we get it. Nobody is to touch Ginny. And I’ll make it my personal duty to make sure that two days from now, neither of these two buffoons will lay a finger on her,” pacified David.
“Besides,” Ron continued grumpily to himself, “Ginny belongs with Harry. Ginny and Harry are good for each other. They should be together now more than ever, because Ginny is distancing herself from everyone, and no one - except maybe Harry - can bring her back.”
John, in the middle of another Scotch - he had lost count of just how many long ago - as Ron started this passionate speech, at the mention of Ginny Weasley immediately tried to swallow his drink too quickly and choked for a moment before he was slowly able to regain control. “Wh-what?”
Neville, Dean, Seamus and David were all unnaturally quiet and attentive. Ron, his cheeks red from both the drink and his anger, gripped the edge of the table and tried to squeeze his frustration out and into it. “Harry bloody Potter,” he snarled. “Who should have been here, not God knows where else, busy working!” He spit the last word. The hand that wasn’t trying to pulverize the wood table slammed hard upon the top of it, rattling the glasses and shocking every patron in the shabby pub into staring, flabbergasted, at the group.
“Ron, you’re making a scene,” mumbled David. John sat frozen in his seat, his eyes wide in shock.
“I don’t care anymore!” Ron retorted. “Some best friend - abandoning his family on the most important day of his best mate’s life! He should be here, drinking with us; he should’ve been calming me down, encouraging me that I’m doing the right thing, and standing beside me as a best mate should when I marry the woman I love!”
Neville’s voice was calm. “I’m sure he would have come if he could, mate; you know he loves you.”
“I would’ve believed so before he decided to stay away like he did. Guess I’m not that surprised, though; hasn’t shown his face in ‘bout four years, has he? Not one letter either, saying that he was even alive, till now.”
“It’s all right to be mad at him,” said Neville.
“I know that!” cried Ron, exasperated. “He deserted me … deserted us, but I still want him here; I need him.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “I guess that I just feel like, maybe, in the end we weren’t enough for him to stick around for.”
“He’ll be back when he’s ready; he just has to figure this thing, whatever it is, out for himself,” consoled Seamus. “He would be so proud of you and Hermione, though; heavens knows, it’s taken the two of you long enough!”
Ron snorted into his drink. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”
John gazed intently into his Scotch. He had never thought of his actions like that before, as having such a big impact on his friends even now, four years later. He’d gotten it backwards before: leaving hadn’t done them any good; if anything, it had only provoked the feelings in them that he’d wanted to escape from in the first place. He continued to avoid the others’ gazes, afraid that his condemnation would be written clearly upon his face. He didn’t say anything more the entire night.
John woke up the next morning feeling disoriented and sporting a pounding headache, making his head throb like he had just been struck on it with an out-of-control Bludger. He looked around Ron’s vibrant orange room with squinted eyes, still decorated in numerous Chudley Canon Quidditch team posters, dazedly trying to make sense of where he was and what he’d been doing last night; it all seemed like one big blur now. The sun was bright through the window and there was no sign of either Ron or David. Hearing muffled voices coming from below, John rolled off of his cot and, still in his pyjamas, exited the room to find out what was going on.
He was almost to the kitchen before he encountered any more signs of human habitation in the usually full Burrow. The shouting voices had gradually gotten louder the further down he went, and now they invaded his ears, only worsening his headache. Outside the entrance to the kitchen, where the voices were emitting from, four tall figures lingered and John recognized David, Neville, Seamus and Dean. At the sight of them, his memory of late last night flooded back like a dam had been released and he was bombarded with the reminder of Muggle alcohol, the six men drinking away Ron’s ending bachelorhood, and the depressing conversation it had all led to.
He crept forward behind David and whispered, his voice scratchy, “What’s happenin’?”
“Shh,” came the anxious answer from the majority of the men; but David turned around and eyed him expectantly, knowingly, as only the sole person aware of John’s worst secret could.
“It’s Ron and Hermione,” he murmured. “Hermione wasn’t too happy about Ron coming home so drunk last night. She’s been giving it to him since eight o’clock this morning.”
John checked his wristwatch; it was almost nine. “Why is she so upset, though; did he do something after we returned?”
David turned away again. “No, listen.”
Now that he was barely a foot away, the raised voices were loud and clear. John imagined this fight in his mind compared to all the ones he had witnessed in their school days and shook his head; clearly, no matter how much older they got, the need to always contradict each other would never go away. The other members of the Weasley clan had probably seen enough of their bickering lately to last them till doom’s day, which explained the eerie emptiness of the house. Typical.
“If Neville, Dean and Seamus wanted you to jump off a cliff, would you?” came Hermione’s shrill, disembodied voice.
Ron mumbled something which sounded suspiciously like, “Would if I could right now.” John heard cupboard doors slamming shut and angry footsteps pacing the wooden floor in a fury. This didn’t look good for Ron; out of the corner of his eye, John saw Dean shake his head sympathetically.
“Those two at it again?” somebody asked from behind them. All five of the eavesdroppers whirled round guiltily on their heels to find George smirking in the direction of the kitchen, where his youngest brother was trapped.
Then, more shrieking from Hermione and Ron said stupidly, “Well, can I not have some fun once in a while? Instead of cleaning, and picking out appetizers and flowers, and a million other things!”
Everyone on the safe side of the barrier between life and painful death winced in sympathy for Ron. In answer, someone huffed out a clear disapproval and staccato footsteps announced the approach of one half of the fighting pair towards where they stood. Suddenly, John found himself quite alone as his companions made themselves scarce and, before he had a chance to move too, the door was flung open and an irate Hermione stormed out. She only paused once to give John a forced smile before barricading herself in Ginny’s old bedroom on the first floor.
John sighed. Deal with a probably extremely angry Ron, or console an irrational Hermione; neither were very appealing at any time. But John still remembered Ron’s depressed state of last night and his hurt voice as he verbalized his feelings for his old friend, and it was bound to be awkward, even if only in John’s perspective; he didn’t want to have to relive that moment quite so soon. Shoving his fists deep into his trouser pockets, he took the decidedly less scary route and knocked timidly on the bedroom door. When Hermione’s head peeped out, her eyes red and cheeks wet, John entered the room without waiting for an admittance and closed the door softly behind him.
Hermione gazed at John from the opposite end of the bedroom, a confused expression on her tear-stained face. Determined not to look at her yet, he pulled out the desk chair to sit on it and motioned for Hermione to have a seat on the bed, to which she reluctantly complied. He stared at his entwined hands, awkward and out of place, wanting her to speak first, and yet almost wishing that she wouldn’t and that they could just sit here in silence for a while.
“Is there something you needed, John?”
He looked up from his hands in surprise. “Um … no, not really.” She just stared at him inquisitively, so he continued, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay; I heard the fight.”
She laughed shakily once without humour. “Who didn’t?” she asked rhetorically. She took a deep breath. “I’m fine, thank you, John.”
“You don’t look it,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t take it out on Ron so bad.”
Her eyebrows rose on her forehead, a suspicious expression entered her eyes as she studied him, and he found himself squirming under the pressure. “I know it’s not my business,” he whispered.
“You’re right, it’s not,” she replied curtly. “But, if you must know, he … he is - can just be so infuriating. Irresponsible; child-like. He’s twenty-two, not two, but you’d never know it sometimes! He hardly helps with the wedding, he lets his idiotic friends - no offence, John - coerce him in to staying out all night and getting pissed--”
“None taken,” he cut off her rant.
“Moping around all the time. Just being plain … Ron.”
John laughed, he couldn’t help it. That was one way of describing Ron’s behaviour. Yes, he was just being himself: fun, tactless, big-hearted Ron. “Then do you really think starting arguments over it is going to help any?”
“No,” she murmured to herself. “But it’s easier than trying to deal with it.”
He leaned forward and took her hand gently in his. “He’s mad and hurt, he misses his best friend and wonders if there was anything he could’ve done to stop whatever happened from happening. Trust me, Hermione; it’s not your fault. None of this is,” he said sadly.
She stared intently at the floor and he thought that he saw more tears gathering in her brown eyes. “How do you know all of this?”
“He talked about it a bit that day we played Quidditch, and he talked a lot about it last night at the bar. Plus, I’ve pieced together some of the parts on my own. I have to say, this guy you all seem so distraught over losing must have been quite the git to just drop such wonderful people like he did.”
“You didn’t know Harry,” she shot at him furiously; her warm eyes drowned in pain. “You never knew him, so don’t come here thinking you know everything about us, and our pasts, and that you can fix it all - because you can’t!”
“Sorry.” He got up and turned away from her before she could witness his face scrunching up in pain over her words, and walked towards the door. “All I’m saying is, ease up on him a little, please, Hermione. You’re all hurting real bad, I can see that, but taking it out on each other will only make things worse. And you may find that - although you may not like it - that if you leave things to fester too long, it may be too late by the time you actually want to fix it. Trust me, I know from experience.” He opened the door and was halfway out before she spoke again.
“Thank you,” she breathed so quietly that he almost missed it, “for listening.”
“You’re welcome,” he returned, stepping out into the hall, and then he left.