Unofficial Portkey Archive

A/N: So after giving this chapter a good re-write, I'm beginning to think that the warning in the last chapter may have been slightly dramatic. And I've decided to extend this thing to six chapters-so this one isn't the last. So it's going to end slightly less open-ended than I originally intended.

This is where I say I've had enough
and no one should ever feel the way that I feel now.
A walking open wound,
a trophy display of bruises
and I don't believe that I'm getting any better.

So don't be a liar,
don't say that "everything's working"
when everything's broken.
And you smile like a saint
but you curse like a sailor
and your eyes say the joke's on me.

-Dashboard Confessional, Saint and Sailors

***

"Have you ever been outside of England?"

They're in Hermione's room. She's leaning against the headboard of her bed, his head in her lap. Her fingers are slowly combing through his hair.

They almost look…

Normal.

"Yes," Hermione says, not seeming to find the question strange.

"I've never been," Harry mumbles, closing his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if I ever will. I'd like to. I think… I think I'd like to live somewhere warm."

"Somewhere warm?" Hermione repeats, her eyebrows raising slightly. "Would I be there?"

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Of course you'd be. I mean… if you'll come with me… you will come with me, won't you?"

He's anxious now and she's delighted by it.

"We could live in a little house… by the ocean…" Hermione says. "With big windows, so that the sun will always come in. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I'd love it," Harry says.

"Once a week we could walk into town to buy groceries," Hermione muses. "Otherwise, we'd be completely secluded."

"We'd be completely safe," Harry continues. "All alone… nothing would ever bother us."

Their expressions are changing now, becoming darker as they fight a losing battle. There's a long moment of silence as Hermione continues to comb her fingers through his hair. Harry heaves a great sigh.

"Oh, sod it," he mutters. "That's never going to happen and we both know it. No point in deluding ourselves."

"Sometimes it's easier," Hermione whispers. "Don't you ever think about the future?"

"No."

Hermione looks distressed-long gone is her relaxed teasing. "Never?"

Harry swallows. "It's too difficult. I can't… I can't think past what might happen."

"I think about the future."

"Yeah?" Harry says listlessly.

"Yes," she whispers. "And you're in it."

"Hermione…"

"It's alright," she says. "You don't have to say anything."

"I might not-I probably won't-you shouldn't think about stuff like that."

"Why not?"

"Because," he says softly. "I can't promise that there will be a future for either of us."

"You don't have to."

He doesn't say anything more, but he's looking at her with such intensity-like he desperately wants to promise.

Finally, when he speaks, it's with hesitation. "Hermione… do you… are you in love with me?"

Ron never stayed to hear the answer to Harry's question. Instead he fled-back to his own room, where the walls were quiet and empty and he was painfully alone.

Ron isn't sure who they think they're fooling.

They're certainly not fooling him-though he suspects he's the one they're most trying to hide from.

It baffles him, really. She's the brightest witch of her age and he's… well… he's Harry Potter. The Boy Who Should Know These Things.

Their "secret" hasn't been secret for a long time.

Sometimes he wants to yell and scream and rage because how could they be so stupid to think that they could ever keep their relationship private?

He heard it from the portraits originally. Though, once he became aware of "it," Ron quickly realized that his best friends are not-exactly-subtle.

The big secret-the real secret-is the fact that he knows.

He knows and they're too blinded by each other to notice anything-anyone else-around them.

And he doesn't want to know if it's love, because they've made such a game out of pretending. Such a game.

Everything is fine.

Everything is a game and it's fine and nothing's changed and he's not allowed to know.

Only that's a lie.

Everything is wrong.

Everything is wrong, and he doesn't know why-and they lie to him, continue to lie to him, and he's beginning to hate them.

And sometimes he thinks about how he may have unknowingly set them into motion.

There's always been something different about Harry and Hermione.

And now that it's happened-inevitably, irreversibly-he can no longer ignore it.

He's an outsider.

He's an outsider looking in and his best friends don't even have enough respect for him to give him the truth.

He hates them a little for that.

He hates the fact that he's hanging on to them with everything he has left, because being part of the trio, even a little part, is so much better than not being part of it at all.

He hates that he tiptoes around the house, now, because he hates disturbing them when they're together. There's always something so intimate about them and intense and he hates seeing it, hates interrupting it, hates them for putting him in that position.

And they should have known that they couldn't keep up the façade forever. They should have known that everything would eventually explode. They should have known.

He's drying dishes with Hermione. Mum's out doing stuff for the Order, and they're stuck at home, doing things the Muggle way. They're playing the game-they're pretending-and he's growing angrier, because she's lying to him. She's washing dishes and laughing with him and it's all a lie.

"So," he begins conversationally, throat burning as he methodically passes her a dish that needs washing. "Have you fucked him yet?"

The reaction is immediate.

Crash.

The dish falls to the floor and shatters into millions of tiny shards of glass.

She's staring at him, her face pale and her hands beginning to tremble.

"Wh-what?" she whispers.

Ron almost feels bad. Almost.

"Harry," he says-surprised by how calm he is. "Have you-"

"Don't finish that sentence," Hermione says sharply, tears beginning to form in her eyes now. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

"Why not?" Ron says challengingly, prodding at pieces of broken glass with his shoe. "I think it's the kind of thing I have a right to know, don't you? I mean, after all… it's only my two best friends we're talking about!"

"Oh, Ron," she whispers, but she sounds less angry now-she sounds terribly sad. Ron wishes she were still angry. "I'm so sorry. We've-I know we should have told you, but we-"

"Don't bother," he mutters. "It's not worth it. I don't want to know."

"You must be so upset…" Hermione says sympathetically and Ron wishes she would stop. He wants her to be angry. "I'm so sorry, Ron. Really… there's nothing…" she drops her voice and lowers her gaze. "I hope one day you can forgive us."

He doesn't know what to say. So he says nothing at all, just stares down at the pieces of broken glass scattered across the kitchen floor.

Hermione follows his gaze. With a small sniffle, she bends down and starts picking up them up. She cuts her finger on a piece of glass and little droplets of blood trickle out. She bites her lip in pain, the blood mixing with the glass on the floor.

China, Ron realizes. It was a china dish before it smashed all over the kitchen floor. Mum isn't going to be happy. And now it's in pieces and covered in Hermione's blood…

"What the hell is going on here?"

Ron raises his head.

Harry.

Harry, whose eyes are flat as they meet his-flat and… murderous. Ron represses a shiver and he understands, suddenly, why it's always Harry that has to face Voldemort.

"What the hell is going on here?" Harry repeats, moving into the kitchen.

Ron realizes how it looks. He's standing there over Hermione… Hermione who's bleeding and crying and…

"Harry, it's alright," she says hurriedly, still crying. "It's-I dropped the dish… and I cut myself picking it up…"

Harry clenches his jaw, his eyes emotionless as he keeps them trained on Ron. "What did he say to you?"

Ron nearly laughs. "Oh, that's right!" he yells. "That's right! Big, strong Harry Potter is here to save his beloved from scary Ronald Weasley!"

"Careful, Ron," he says warningly, coming even closer to him now.

"I'd never lay a finger on her and you know it," Ron says calmly. "I'm not the one who stabs my friends in the back. That's your job."

Hermione's holding onto the pieces of glass so hard that they're beginning to tear into her hand. She's bleeding even more heavily now. "Oh, don't," she whispers. "Don't…"

Harry's eyes tick over to her, and he swallows with difficulty at the sight of the glass clutched in her hand. "Hermione, throw out the glass," he says, with surprising gentleness. "Throw it out, Hermione."

Hermione does, as if she's been awakened from a long dream. She looks frightened and stares down at her bleeding hands in incomprehension.

Harry looks back at Ron and the message is clear.

You did this.

You hurt her.

Ron swallows and he backs up against the kitchen counter feeling weak and dizzy and wondering when it all came crashing down so fast. Harry's talking to Hermione in soft, hushed tones and Ron can't hear anything they're saying, but he can feel Harry's anger radiating off him and-

Ron suddenly fears for the idiot who will ever dare try and touch Hermione.

Hermione's leaving. Harry's made her feel better and she's leaving and he's… Harry's…

"I didn't touch her."

Ron's surprised at how calm his words are because he's suddenly terrified. He's terrified of Harry and what his best friend is capable of.

Ron gathers himself together. They lied to him-they've been lying to him-they betrayed him.

"I didn't touch her," he says again firmly-challenging. "I'd never hurt her, Harry. You know that."

Harry stops moving towards him. He struggles with himself for a moment. "Alright," he acquiesces. "But if you ever so much as think-"

"Bloody hell!" Ron cuts in sharply, feeling blind fury rising in him. "Is that what you think of me? Hermione's my best friend, you git!"

"But that's not all you want her to be," Harry snaps.

Rage floods through Ron's body, but he takes a breath, refusing to give Harry the upper-hand "What-are you afraid?" he says in a low voice. "Afraid that she's finally going to wake up one day and realize her mistake?"

Harry flinches. "What are you talking about?"

"I think that you know," Ron snaps, coming closer to him. They're nearly nose to nose. Glass crunches under their feet. "One day, Harry. One days she's going to wake up and know that choosing you was the stupidest thing she's ever done."

"You know nothing."

Ron snorts. "Don't lie, Harry. You're so fucking afraid that she'll realize she's made a mistake." Ron keeps his voice low and steady because he knows how much this is hurting Harry.

His best friend.

And it's nothing-nothing compared to what Harry did to him.

These are only words.

Just words.

Harry betrayed him.

They're so close to throttling each other. Neither of them have their wands out, but the air is thick around them.

We don't need wands.

Ron keeps pushing-needing to make him suffer, if only a little bit.

"You're afraid she won't be able to put up with it anymore-she won't be able to put up with you anymore." Harry's breathing is harsh and his chest is heaving. And Ron feels sick satisfaction in it-and disgust. He's disgusted at what they are-what's he's… they've become.

"And what do you think, Ron?" Harry says steadily, regaining his composure. "What do you think? That she'll come crying to you?" Harry takes a step back, calming himself. "She'll never feel that way about you, Ron."

"Don't be so thick, Harry," Ron snaps. "I don't even want her anymore."

And Ron realizes that it's true.

He doesn't want her anymore.

Not anymore.

What he does want is to be threes months ago back at Hogwarts when Harry was his best friend and he bickered with Hermione because he liked her and he didn't know how else to act.

Harry looks as if he's been struck. "Don't talk that way about her."

Ron doesn't want her anymore. He doesn't want something that (so clearly) belongs to Harry.

She's not just something, his mind says. She's Hermione.

Hermione.

"Look, Harry," Ron says, his voice softer. "I just don't feel that way about her anymore."

Harry eyes him in clear distrust.

Ron doesn't care. He's telling the truth-he doesn't want Hermione. What he wants is to have his friends back. He wants the friends that would never have lied to him.

"It bothers you, though, doesn't it?" Ron says softly. "It bothers you that I might still have feelings for her. It bothers you because you think that you're not good enough for her."

Harry still doesn't say anything, but his fists are clenching and Ron feels a small thrill.

"And you know why you feel that way, Harry?"

"Why, Ron?" Harry says steadily. "Why, if you're such an expert?"

"Because it's true."

Harry makes a small sound of disgust. "You know nothing, Ron. You don't understand anything."

Ron snorts. "We've been best friends for five-years. I know you better than you think I do."

"Best friends?" Harry echoes. "Best friends, Ron? Is that what we are?"

"That's what we used to be at any rate," Ron mumbles, backing away from him. "Don't s'pose the term means much to you anymore."

They've reached a weary truce. Ron backs against the counter, breathing heavily. He feels the anger drain out of him, leaving a sort of numbness in its wake.

Harry's staring at the floor… the broken pieces of glass, still covered with Hermione's blood.

"You can't protect her, you know," Ron says, studying his (best) friend. "They'll come for her and you won't be able to stop it. You won't be able to do anything."

"Shut up."

He's still staring at the floor and Ron feels a shift in the room. Power, he has it-he has it (for once) and Harry doesn't.

"They'll kill her like they killed Sirius. Just because you care."

"Shut up!"

Harry's advancing now-angry, he's so very angry. And Ron's so numb.

"What happened to you?" Harry says with disgust. "I don't know who you are anymore."

Ron feels a flicker of fear. He can see the traces of what Harry really is-what he's capable of.

"I don't know you," Ron retorts. "D'you even remember, Harry? I asked you if you fancied Hermione. I asked you. And you said you didn't!" Ron stops and draws a breath. "You betrayed me. You snuck around behind my back. You've spent a month lying to me."

For the first time, Ron sees a hint of remorse in Harry's eyes.

"Ron," he says heavily. "I'm sorry. I didn't know-I didn't, I swear. I… when you asked me. I thought I was telling the truth."

"Fat lot of good that does now," Ron mutters.

"Yeah," Harry says, relaxing his posture. "Yeah," he says again. "But I am. I'm really sorry."

Ron runs a hand through his hair. "I know."

A heavy silence descends on the room. Water from the tap drips down against the ink, ringing through the air.

Drip, drip, drip.

There's a barrier between them-holding them back.

Ron wonders if they'll ever be able to overcome it.

"I should… I have to check on Hermione," Harry mumbles.

Ron nods. He doesn't care.

"What the fuck happened to us, Harry?"

Harry stops in the doorway, his back to Ron.

"I don't know," he says, without turning. "I don't know."

"We used to laugh," Ron whispers.

Harry's shoulders slump, and he draws in a sharp breath.

"We used to laugh," Ron says again. "All the time."

"Things used to be simpler, Ron," he says, gripping the edge of the doorway.

"I know there's something you're not telling me," Ron persists, keeping his voice controlled. "I just… I don't understand why we never laugh anymore."

Harry's gone pale. "Do you really want to know why, Ron?"

Ron opens his mouth to say `yes, of course he does,' but something holds him back. If he knows, it might take away his justification in being able to hate Harry just that little bit.

Instead he says, "We used to be a trio. You used to tell us both everything."

Harry has no response to that-he only continues to state at him, steady and unblinking. Ron's words slowly drift back to him.

We used to be a trio.

Used to be.

Used to.

A trio.

"Go find Hermione," Ron says, voice unsteady. "Go make sure she's alright."

Harry does and Ron is left alone with nothing but the dripping tap and the jagged pieces of glass at his feet.

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