All righty, well, first off, I'd like to say A MILLION THANKS to each and every one of you that read! (And reviewed, because I'm one away from 100, so thanks for that! :D)
Second, my beta, Jennza, is responsible for most of this chapter. So, thanks much to her. Erm... So... Read, enjoy, and review! (Or, you know, don't... Whatever. *winks*)
~Ron~
Chapter Five:
She's Like the Wind
She's like the wind through my trees
She rides the night next to me
She leads me through moonlight
Only to burn me with the sun
She's taken my heart
But she doesn't know what she's done
Feel her breath on my face
Her body close to me
Can't look in her eyes
She's out of my league
Just a fool to believe
I have anything she needs
She's like the wind
I look in the mirror and all I see
Is a young old man with only a dream
Am I just fooling myself
That she'll stop the pain
Living without her
I'd go insane
Feel her breath on my face
Her body close to me
Can't look in her eyes
She's out of my league
Just a fool to believe
I have anything she needs
She's like the wind
Feel your breath on my face
Your body close to me
Can't look in your eyes
You're out of my league
'She's Like the Wind'
-Patrick Swayze
I pop into the kitchen of The Burrow and see Hermione sitting at the table with my mum and Ginny. She turns her eyes to me as I walk in and manages to glare at me through the tears. "Where were you?" she asks, coldly.
I sigh. I can't lie to her... Not after this long. "I was having lunch with your ex-boyfriend who suddenly decided he didn't want to be dead anymore."
She stares at me for a while. "He knows we're married?" she asks, calmly.
I nod. "Yes.
"Well," she sniffs, "maybe now he'll see that I'm not waiting for him with open arms and go back to- Where's he been all this time? Not that I care, you understand," she hastens to add. "Just curious."
"I don't know where he's been. He's indicated he won't discuss that with anyone but you." I cross to the table and sit beside her. "And I don't think he's likely to leave, at least not until you talk to him."
"Did you tell him anything?" She asks, turning towards me. She's not glaring at me anymore so I have a sudden hope that I'm not sleeping on the couch tonight.
I shake my head. "He asked some. . .personal questions, but I told him he'd have to talk to you about them. He does know where we live, though."
The glare is back. "And how, Ronald," she hisses in a low, dangerous voice, "would he know where we live?"
At least I have a good reason to have told him. "He said he was planning to stay at #12 tonight and I told him that wasn't a good idea. He seemed kind of shocked that you had inherited everything. Possibly because he's not dead."
"Probably worried about his Gringott's account. Apparently possessions are more important to him than people." She's got a healthy dose of righteous anger going now. "You didn't tell him anything... else, did you?" she asks, almost timidly.
"He did ask if we had any children."
Hermione drops her head to the table with a low moan. I automatically reach over to rub her back. Doesn't seem to be much else I can do for her right now.
"'Mione," I begin softly, knowing I'm about to make myself very unpopular with my wife, "I think you need to talk to him."
Her head springs up, and my heart breaks at the fresh tears in her eyes. She shakes her head vehemently. "No, I won't see him. I said everything I needed to a long time ago- to his headstone."
Mum and Ginny have been sitting silently up until now- probably a record for those two. Now Mum breaks their silence. "I think Ron's right, Hermione," she says softly, leaning over to lay a hand on Hermione's arm. "You've had such a difficult time the last few years. It might do you some good to be able to say what you're feeling to Harry himself instead of Harry's headstone."
Now it's Ginny's turn. With the two Weasley women tag-teaming, Hermione won't stand a chance. "How many times have we had conversations that begin with 'If Harry were here I'd tell him...'" she asks. "If you never want to see him after the conversation, I'll totally understand, but don't you think he deserves to know what he's put you through the last few years?"
The tiniest smile flickers across Hermione's face. "The only thing Harry deserves is a swift kick in the arse," she mumbles, then turns to look at me. "What do I tell him?"
"What do you want to tell him?"
"Oh, Ron, I don't know," she sighs. "I do know that if I have to have this conversation, I can't go into it unprepared. I need time to think about what to say and how to say it. Will you help me?"
"Of course," I say covering her hand with mine. What does she think I've been doing for the last 8-plus years? Then it hits me, leaving me breathless. What Hermione's about to do, what I encouraged her to do, could make a lasting impact on my family and the life we've built over the last few years. Suddenly I want to change my mind, tell her not to talk to Harry, then go to him and tell him she wants him out of her life for good.
But then I look into her eyes and see something I haven't seen there in the longest time- the faintest glimmer of hope. And I realize that I still want the same thing I've always wanted- her happiness. And if talking to Harry, getting closure for the way he left her, is what it takes for her to move forward, I can help her through it.
The back door bursts open and the kitchen is filled with cold air and red-heads.
"Dad, you're here," James runs to me excitedly. "Uncle Fred and Uncle George let me play Seeker and Uncle Draco let me fly his broom, and it's so fast, Dad! Can I get one like it for my birthday?" He pauses for breath and I glance at Hermione, who has pinned Draco to the wall with her glare. He grins, shrugs, and moves to stand behind Ginny. Right, like that's going to save him from a pissed-off Hermione. She turns from Draco to James, her expression changing remarkably in a split second.
"We'll have to see, James. Your old broom is still plenty good," she says, smiling. "Go get your things, we need to be going home soon."
James runs off and Hermione turns back to Draco. "Never do that again," she snaps. "He's just a little boy, he doesn't need to fly so high or fast."
Fred steps in. "He was never in any danger, Hermione. We keep a close eye on him so we can catch him if we need to. Besides, he flies like he was born to it."
Hermione closes her eyes and raises one hand as if to ward off further excuses. "I have enough to worry about right now without wondering how soon my son will fall off his broom. Please, keep him close to the ground, okay?"
"Sorry, Hermione," Draco says softly. " I guess I didn't really think that through. I'll make him stay on his own broom next time."
"And you will not buy him a new one for his birthday."
"And I will not buy him a new one for his birthday." Draco grins sheepishly. "Well, actually, I'll return the one I already bought."
Mum clears her throat. "Hermione, dear, are you sure you don't want James to stay here tonight? You and Ron have a lot to talk about, and the conversation might be easier if you don't have to worry about interruptions or little ears overhearing."
"She does have a point, 'Mione," I say.
"Are you sure you don't mind, Molly?" Hermione asks, turning to her mother-in-law.
"Are you kidding? I love it when James stays with me. It's been so quiet since everyone else moved out, he brings life back into the house." There's a loud squeal of delight as James slides down the bannister. "And noise. Noise is good."
James bounds into the kitchen, carrying his bag. "James, how would you like to stay with Grandma again tonight?" I ask, sweeping him up into my arms.
"Yes! Can I, Mum, please?" He turns brilliant blue eyes to Hermione.
She laughs. James was the only one who could make her laugh for the longest time, and he hasn't lost his touch. "Only if you promise to stay off Uncle Draco's broom," she says with mock severity. She knows she's frightened Draco enough that it
won't ever be an issue again. James looks at Draco, and I see a wink pass between them.
"I promise, Mum. Can I stay?"
"I suppose you can, but Dad and I need to go. If you need us for anything Grandma can Floo us." She pulls him to her and as she hugs him I see a myriad of emotions cross her face: love, pride, patience, tolerance, fear. She only releases him when he squirms and fakes gasping for breath. "I'll pick you up tomorrow." She steps over to me, I wrap my arms around her and Apparate home with my wife.
* * *
I hate when the nightmares come. They don't come as frequently now, but from what I can tell, the intensity hasn't abated.
So I lie awake in my bedroom on the second floor of Grimmauld Place and listen. The nightmares come early, so I've learned that if I make it to midnight with no sounds from the room next door, it's safe for me to sleep. Now, almost a month after he's left, most nights are safe. But other nights, I hear her- the low moans, the thrashing, sometimes things she's knocked off the nightstand, the frightened shrieks of his name... Those are the nights I go to her room and gather her into my arms. After all, I didpromise Harry that I'd take care of her.
I've learned that it's impossible to wake her from these dreams, so I do all I can- hold her close and whisper to her softly until the worst of it has passed. She cries at the end, great wracking sobs that leave us both breathless. Sometimes I cry, too. It's the very fact that we don't know where Harry is or what he's doing that bothers us so much. We don't know whether he's dead or alive and it kills us both. The first few times, I tried to shake her out of them, but my attempts were in vain; she never wakes during any of the nightmares, no matter how sore I know her throat must be after screaming and crying like she does. I wonder if it's because subconsciously she can't bear to deal with the dream when it's that fresh in her mind. Whatever the reason, after the nightmare runs its course, she sleeps deeply, peacefully.
While she sleeps, I lie awake and watch her, gently stroking her cheek or her hair. This is the only time she is ever truly calm anymore. It shows on her face. In the morning, dark circles will show beneath her eyes and her usually rosy cheeks are pallid. But after the nightmares, when she slips into a state of wonderful euphoria, the look on her face is of utmost happiness. The way her lashes lie in dark, wet triangles against her skin; the way the light from the candle plays across her hair, bringing out golden highlights, the delicate tracks the drying tears have left on her cheeks, all surpassed by the sweet smile on her lips as she breathes deeply. I hold her tight against me until I can see the first light of dawn shimmering through the window. Then I slip out, as silently as I came, and return to my own room.
We've never talked about those nights she spends in my arms. I'm not even sure she knows I'm there. I tell myself that someday I'll stay until she wakes. Someday, she'll wake up after one of the dreams and find me there. Maybe if that happens I can tell her how I feel; lying there in the quiet dark I can tell her that I've loved her for as long as I can remember. A very small, very selfish part of me dreads the day the nightmares end for good, because then I'll have no excuse to be where I want to be more than anyplace else- holding her in my arms. Realistically, I know she can't move forward with anyone until she's dealt with the past, and she hasn't dealt with the past until the nightmares stop. I hope that when that happens I'll have the courage to tell her. Until then, I'll lie awake nights, listening for her and going when I'm needed.
I hate when the nightmares come.