Chapter 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Author's Notes: Once again, thanks for the reviews. But please, please, please, I need your reviews to keep me going!
Oh, and try listening to Nick Drake's "Pink Moon". That was the inspiration.
*******
"Harry, mate, this is bloody fantastic!" Ron asserts in between bites. We were at their place. Ron. Hermione. House. Mr. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley. House. After thousands upon thousands of visits, I still bite the bottom of my lip so hard that it bleeds. I immediately wipe of the blood, lest they notice.
"Yeah, tell me about it," I mumble back. I play with the fork before me.
I can feel her gaze. I know she's looking at me. Not blatantly, but secretly. In between sipping her margaritas, in between biting the Gruyere cheese, in between sucking the olives.
Sucking the olives.
That's why I'm playing with the fork. I cannot look at her. I know she doesn't do it on purpose - she's too innocent and unaware for that. She's still the Yule Ball girl. Beautiful but unaware, sexy but innocent. But it still breaks me.
So I don't look. I play with the fork instead.
"Anyway, so how long is the trip? Can I get a bloody extension? This is Spain for Merlin's sake, bloody Barcelona, Granada, Cerveza, you get my point. I'm going to get tanned and pissed while I work. Isn't that bloody brilliant?"
I give a small laugh.
"Ron, you're going there to work. The Ministry will kill you if you don't finish that report." Hermione, finally, cuts in.
"I have to agree with your wife there," I reply back to keep the normalcy. She winces a little. Ron does not notice.
I wonder why I do this. I wonder why I make her realize over and over again that she's his wife. That she's not mine. That she's never mine.
I wonder why I push her away in between selfishly grabbing her, only to let her go again.
I wonder but I know the answer.
I'm a bitter fool.
But in spite of the pain, in spite of all the regrets, I strive to keep a normal face.
"I will, I will. You bloody people don't trust me. I'm going to blast all those bloody Death Eater remnants and then I'm going to get pissed and then blast those bloody remnants again, then get pissed. Now, everyone's happy."
"Yes, so long as you make it back next week, with that report, then it's all good. I don't care if you're bloody pissed to the face or if you're burnt down to your bloody balls, as long as you have that report."
"I don't think you can burn on your balls, but anyway, can I take Hermione?" He asks, fully unaware of the effect of that simple question. Immediately, she gulps down her margaritas while I stuff my mouth with cheese. He looks at us, questioningly.
"I know it's official business, but Hermione and I haven't really spent time with each other," he continues.
I smell guilt. I'm just not so sure of the source.
I wait a few seconds. I take a few more breaths. I feel the heat coming from her.
"Well, I can work it out," I finally answer.
But before he can reply back, she immediately stands up. She mumbles something like, "washroom", and makes her way out.
Ron stares after her retreating figure. I stare at my reflection on the glass instead.
We stay silent for a few minutes. He knows I know. And he's trying to gain the courage to say something.
Finally, he says,
"I don't know what happened, mate."
"What do you mean?" I play dumb. He's not buying it.
"You bloody well know what I mean."
"Well, maybe you just need to talk things out."
"We tried talking things out but it didn't work. We always end up arguing and fighting. It used to be fine before, we always made up, but now it's just draining us."
"It's only the second year of your marriage. Give it a chance."
"I'm giving it a chance, but nothing seems to work."
"Well, maybe this trip might help. I'll try to work it out." My heart is clenching even more. Clenching so much that I can't help but emit some sort of sarcasm in my tone. He doesn't seem to notice though.
"Bloody hell, Harry. You've been helping us so much, I don't know how I'll even repay you for all these things."
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. I start to shake. I start to fidget.
Home wrecker.
"You don't have to, we're friends. That's what friends do," I finally reply.
We stay quiet again. Then we hear footsteps. She's coming back.
She avoids both our eyes and takes her seat. She drinks a glass of water.
"Better," she finally says. She tries to sound normal, but she doesn't. Like the rest of us. Everyone's striving to be normal but we're all consumed by conflicting emotions in the end.
"Anyway, mate. Thanks for this again," Ron finally says after a more than awkward pause.
I simply nod my head. I then look at my watch. Quarter past. I don't have to go. But I want to. This is too much, all too much. We're just playing hypocrites, trying to be civil, but we're all breaking apart.
I think about our past and it pains me to think about our present.
"I have to go," I finally say.
"Sure, mate. Thanks again for this. I'll walk you to the door," Ron replies as he stands up.
I briefly touch Hermione's shoulder. She nods her head but she doesn't look at me.
"Good bye," I tell her.
"Good bye," she replied back.
We walk silently to the door. Once we're outside, he looks at me. He looks at me and I realize something.
Guilt.
He's guilty too.
"I'm coming clean, Harry. I have to come clean," he tells me. His voice is shaking. But he perseveres. He says,
"I had an affair. She found out."
I remain quiet. I look at him, conflicting emotions pounding through my veins. I want to hit him, I want to hurt him, but I can't and I won't. I can't and I won't because that's hypocritical of me.
That's why I don't do anything.
I just nod my head.
"I'm a bastard, Harry. I'm sorry. I let her down. I let you down. That's why I'm trying everything. I've hurt her and it hurts me."
I still don't say anything.
"Say something," he begs.
"I don't have anything to say," I reply.
He understands. He gives a final wave and goes back to the house.
I stand outside for a while.
I wonder why she never told me about this.
I give a sigh. I decide to walk home.
I look back at the house one final time.
And she looks back at me. I see her in the window, a sad expression on her face. I hold her gaze and we just stare at each other.
I raise my hand to wave. She doesn't raise hers back. Instead, she opens the window and she tells me,
"Don't go."
So I don't.
-->