Everything You Own

Everything You Own

I leaned on the wall next to the door to Ron's room, and listened to Molly. She spoke heatedly, but still I could hear the embarrassment in her voice. She loved all her children dearly, but Ron didn't very often make her life easier.

"Because ... well, I had to get yours second-hand, and there wasn't a lot of choice," she said.

I knew they were talking about Ron's dress robes. I had been about to knock at the door, when I heard them arguing.

I know those dress robes. I've seen them on him, and I can understand that Ron felt embarrassed because of them. Moreover, they were maroon, and I know how he despises that colour. I know he is a proud person and that he often suffered from getting most things second hand. So, in a way, I could understand him back then, as I can still understand him today.

Nevertheless, I felt sympathy for Molly too. Ron knew his family hadn't much money, and as much as he might have suffered from this fact, his mother always did the best she could to offer her children everything they truly needed. And I found the manner in which Ron replied hurtful and unjust.

"I'm never wearing them. Never," he said stubbornly, and I could practically see Molly flinch inwardly at his words.

"Fine," she snapped. I wondered whether she felt upset. I think she did, but I knew she would never show it. "Go naked." she said. "And Harry, make sure you get a picture of him. Goodness knows, I could do with a laugh."

I had barely time to retreat a few steps before she left the room, slamming the door behind her. She didn't notice me. I didn't want to go in right away. I didn't want him to know that I had overheard their conversation. So I waited a moment, still leaning against the wall. A funny spluttering noise came from inside. It sounded... like an owl choking. I heard Ron stride across the room. And then he said the words that for some strange reason hurt me in a way I couldn't quite grasp.

"Why is everything I own rubbish?" he said furiously.

Why is everything I own rubbish?

I didn't feel like going inside, and yet I didn't feel like going away either. I slid down the wall and sat there for several minutes, listening to the sounds of Pig, as Ron apparently saved the tiny owl from choking to death. Then there was silence in the room, except for Pig's occasional hoots. Harry didn't say a word. I could understand that; I wouldn't have known what to say either. My parents are quite affluent and I am their only child. So both Harry and I had a good deal more money than Ron, and I always felt a little awkward when the subject came up. I knew exactly how Harry felt back then in that room.

But my mind was still on Ron's last question.

Why is everything I own rubbish?

Some time later Harry left the room. He didn't notice me either, as he walked away and down the stairs. I stood up and entered the room to find Ron lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn't turn to look who had entered.

"Harry?" he asked.

I didn't reply, but walked silently over to his bed. I didn't know what I wanted. I had no idea what I was about to do. Still, his words swirled through my mind, and I noticed how a part of me took offence in them. A part of me ached in a way I had never felt it before.

When I stood right in front of his bed, he finally turned. He looked very surprised to find me there instead of Harry. His eyes widened slightly in surprise. He mouthed my name, and without thinking I put one finger to his lips to silence him.

"Close your eyes," I said. The words just came, and I sat down at the edge of his bed.

Half propped up on his elbows, he merely looked at me. "Hermione, what...?"

I shushed him and repeated, "Close your eyes." And, though with some reluctance, he lay back again and closed his eyes.

I took out my wand, pointed it at the door and locked it with a firm thought.

***

"Shush," she says gently. "Close your eyes."

I have no idea what she wants, or why she was even here. But, somehow, I lie back and close my eyes. For a moment there is silence and I feel some sort of electricity fill the air between us. This is so weird! My eyelids flicker slightly, as if daring to open again. But I keep them closed. Then four cool fingertips touch my forehead. For a split second I shiver. Her hand glides slowly onto my face. First the fingertips, slowly gliding forward, then I feel her fingers, followed by her warm palm until at last her thumb also comes down to rest on the bridge of my nose. My mind spins oddly, thinking a thousand thoughts and nothing at the same time. I figure it must be her left hand from the way it is positioned on my forehead. I wonder why I even bother to think about it. I swallow. I feel confused and yet... this... this is completely natural. Her hand rests on my forehead for one more moment. She starts to let her hand trail over my face with soft pressure. She glides along the features of my face. Still I keep my eyes closed, but my thoughts... they want to spill. My mouth wants to spill out my confusion.

As if sensing it, Hermione puts one finger against my lips, her other hand still moving about my skin. For a moment the finger remains motionless; cool and light and soft. Then the other fingers slowly come down one by one until all four of them rest on my lips and the corner of my mouth. The soft pressure keeps running slowly over my face. The fingers on my lips glide away; glide away gently over my skin. This hand now too begins to trail over my face, yet it is feathery light. The two hands criss-cross over my face on what almost seems to be a predestined path. A thought forms leisurely in my already nebulous mind. Is she bewitching me? In a way she must be, for little by little I stop wondering. The pressuring hand has a massaging quality. On its path it avoids my lips and eyes. The feathery hand caresses them. My mind trails off. I stop thinking at all; I merely feel. Her cool fingers are a pleasure to my warm face, her warm palm a reassuring comfort. I fall, as on and on she goes. I feel the electricity in the air pleasantly build up between her hands and my skin, caught on the miniscule hairs covering my skin.

The lighter hand follows the path of the softly pressuring one, pulling the electrical energy along with it. It feels funny, yet... wonderful, and in a way... unearthly. Gradually, part of my thinking returns, as I feel that the ritual nears its end. The hands slow down even more and then... then the first glides over and down my forehead into my hair, gripping it with gentle firmness. The feathery light one traces my features one last time, my forehead, my eyes, my nose until it reaches my lips and glides tenderly away from them. I can still feel the movement, the invisible paths on my skin. The electricity slowly ceases. It feels like an echo of the ritual, and as it fades more and more, my mind leisurely stirs. Questions return. Has she ever given any signs before? Any signs at all that... that something like this could happen? I don't dare open my eyes. Her hand still rests in my hair. But now... now I become aware of a weight on my body. Her body on mine. She was half laying on me.

Slowly I open my eyes again, feeling that she silently gave permission. She looks at me with her eyes full of affection. Have I ever seen this affection in her eyes before? Have I never? Never noticed... She places her right hand in my left that hangs leisurely off the bed. I entwine our fingers. She closes hers carefully around mine. I do the same.

Have I really never noticed? Had I really...?

There is a mist of sadness dulling her affection. I want to breeze it away, but somehow I feel that the cause for the mist is the same as for the look beneath it. Me. She looks at me. I reach up with one hand and caress her hair. I pull away the lock that fell directly in her face, and tuck it behind her ear. Don't be sad. Don't. But no words leave my mouth. She leans in and... kisses my forehead. Her lips are soft. She pulls away far enough, so I can look into her eyes again. The mist hasn't ceased. Don't be sad. I try to lean in to kiss her lips, but she backs away slightly. She keeps just looking at me. Then... she leans in again, and our lips meet. My eyes fall closed, and only open again when she pulls away. Her hand leaves my hair and pushed hers away from her face again. She pulls her other hand away and props herself up on one arm, taking away the warm comforting weight of her body. She looks at me. She watches me. She takes me in. I can do nothing but to look back at her.

Then, her soft voice, slightly raspy, breaks the silence.

"You own my heart, Ronald Wesley," she says. "You own my heart."

The words pour into my ears like heaven coming down to earth. But she looks very serious, as she speaks on, "Be careful with it. Don't hurt me. And be careful with what you say." One more moment until I feel her weight upon me. Yet another, and our eyes meet. Then she slides down from me, and from the bed.

She takes out her wand and points it at me. I can't think. I can't react. Pity has mixed with the sadness in the mist. And regret. Or is it remorse?

"Obliviate!"

***

"Obliviate!" I said, and tucked away my wand. Ron looked confused for a moment, and I took a few steps backward, to ensure I wasn't standing too close to him when his mind cleared again. I used the time to unlock the door silently.

"Hermione," he said slightly puzzled, when he eventually became aware of me. He shook his head slightly, and then he seemed normal again. "What do you want?" he asked friendly.

"I wanted to ask you whether I could store some of my things in your trunk," I lied, "Mine is a little too full with all the new books." It was only then that I remembered the original purpose of my visit, but I shoved it aside.

He smiled. "Mine is pretty full too," he said, "But I think I could still squeeze some stuff in. Just bring it over here." I nodded and left, to find Harry in front of the door, looking slightly surprised to see the door opening so easily. I passed him to get some things out of my trunk to give them to Ron.

***

The night after the Yule Ball, when I lay in my bed, the row was still stirring my mind. I remembered the night at the end of the summer holidays before our fourth year. The night before we left The Burrow. I now had the same funny prickling feeling on my face as I had had back then. A pleasantly energetic, yet somehow strange feeling. That night, back then, I had dreamed of Hermione. A curious dream it had been too. Nevertheless, a blissful one all the same.

I remembered the shirt. Hermione's t-shirt. I still had it. I rose silently and went over to my trunk. The t-shirt was hidden in a small rosewood box at the bottom of the trunk. That night she had given me two things to store. A book and the shirt. Back at Hogwarts she had asked for the book. Apparently she had forgotten about the shirt. Or maybe she just hadn't asked for it. I had kept it.

I took it out of the box, closed my trunk and went back to bed. The shirt still smelled faintly of her...or maybe I just wanted it to. It was very unlikely that it actually did, for it had been washed before we had packed our trunks back at The Burrow. It was much more likely that I just smelled the soft scent of rosewood. But I imagined it to be her scent when I hold the shirt in my hands that night.

I felt confused. Utterly confused. Little by little, however, that scent eased my mind, and I stopped thinking as my senses began to imagine her closeness. I didn't think about it. I fell asleep.

That night I dreamed of her again. In the dream she was stroking my face lightly, gently. She kissed me. "You own my heart, Ronald Weasley," the angel in my dreams whispered, "Be careful with it." A mist of sadness covered her eyes. "Don't hurt me."

"Never! Don't be sad, my only angel. Please, don't be sad."

***

fin