The Corresponding Emotion

With the money he'd got from Malfoy, Ron went to the nearest restaurant and got something to eat. It was a Muggle restaurant, and he had no idea how much the money was worth, so he probably paid more for his food than it was worth, but he didn't care. All he'd had to eat for the last fifteen or so hours was a chocolate biscuit and a handful of Every-Flavour Beans, so having something to eat made him feel a little better. But just a little.

What was he going to do? He hated to admit it, but Malfoy was right; he didn't know anything about travelling or Muggles or anything else.

He was pretty much screwed.

Being pathetic wasn't going to get him anywhere, though, so he made a plan. Obviously, asking Harry for help was completely out of the question. And even if he had the first clue where Malfoy was, he wasn't asking him for help either. No way. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to try to confront Harry again or just go home, but regardless, he was going to need a passport and a wand.

A few minutes of questions with the waitstaff and he'd figured out he needed to go to the British Consulate to get a new passport; but since there were no wizards around that he knew of, he didn't have a clue how to get a wand. What he really wanted to do was find a Floo and talk to Hermione – she'd know what to do, as always, and if he could get in touch with Bill at the bank, he'd probably be able to freeze his vault if it hadn't been emptied already – but again, he didn't have a clue how to find a Floo.

Sighing, he paid his bill and set off on foot for the consulate. It was a good several blocks away, and by the time he got there his eyes were drooping and his feet dragging. The consulate was closed, of course, so he sat down against the fence, put his head on his knees, and waited for morning.

An entire day of stumbling about Charlotte had left Ron exhausted. He'd stood in line for most of the day at the British Consulate to get a new passport, and had been afraid they weren't going to give him another one until he was sent to another part of the building that was apparently dedicated to wizarding citizens. They had outfitted him with a new passport, tried to give him a new wand from a stock of Ollivander's wands they kept (but they didn't have one that suited him at all), and best of all, they had let him use their Floo connection.

"Ron?" said Hermione, when her anxious face appeared in the fireplace. "Ron, where are you? It's all over the papers about Harry and his fiancée –"

"Fiancée?" Ron croaked. Harry was getting married? He just met this girl!

Hermione bit her lip; Ron was sure she was wringing her hands in her lap, even though he couldn't see them. "You didn't know?" she asked.

"No, I didn't know!"

"Are you all right? What happened?"

The sound of Hermione's sensible voice made Ron violently homesick. "I – I don't know, Hermione," he said, hating how pathetic he sounded. "I haven't talked to him at all."

"I thought Harry had been acting quite... well, dodgy for the last few years," said Hermione, "but I never thought that – I never expected you two to break up. Did you have an argument?"

"No, nothing. He just – he showed up in the Floo one night and said it was over."

"Oh, Ron... "

"But it's okay, Hermione," said Ron, forcing himself not to think about the fact that he was supposed to be the thing Harry would sorely miss. "It's okay, because I'm going to talk to him, and I'm going to stand by him through this... whatever it is. I promised him I'd never give up on him, no matter what, and I'm not going to. I love him, Hermione, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to get him back."

Hermione gave him one of those looks, the kind of look that said she didn't really approve but she was going to let him do it anyway, just so he'd learn a lesson. "What can I do? Your family is worried sick, since you didn't leave a note or anything and no one could find you – do you want me to tell them anything?"

Ron was extremely grateful for her offer because he really didn't think he could talk to his parents right now. "Er... actually, yeah. Just tell them that I'm okay, and Harry and I will be home soon? And er, my vault key got stolen so can you see if Bill can put a freeze on my Gringotts vault till we get back?"

"Stolen?" Hermione shrieked. "Ron, what happened? Are you all right?"

"It's okay, Hermione, really. I'm fine, I just need you to do that for me, okay?"

Hermione nodded. "I will, Ron. Please promise me you'll be careful?"

"I'm fine, Hermione, I promise. I didn't get hurt or anything, just robbed."

"I wasn't talking about that, Ron," she said gently.

After leaving the consulate, new passport tucked safely in his jacket pocket, Ron headed back to the Westin hotel to try to find out where Harry had gone next, as Harry's itinerary had been with his passport and money and was now long gone.

Ron slapped the shiny brass call bell on the desk. "Hello," he said to the smartly-dressed concierge. "I'm back."

"Good afternoon, sir," said the concierge, folding her neatly manicured hands in front of her on the desk. "Welcome to the Westin hotel."

"How do you do that?" Ron asked, nearly at the end of his rope. "You say welcome back, but the meaning just isn't there. Is that an American thing, or a concierge thing?"

"As you wish, sir," she said calmly.

He could feel his temper rising, creeping up the back of his neck. "Because when you do that, it just gets under my skin, and it makes me – completely - insane!" He slammed his hand down on the bell again, ringing it over and over, the loud clanging and the shocked stares of the other guests in the lobby oddly satisfying his frustration.

The concierge yanked the bell away from him, a bright flush staining her cheeks. "Thank you for that fascinating lesson in our cultural differences, sir. Everyone says Americans are the most uncouth people on the planet, but I'm beginning to think the British have a monopoly on rude behaviour."

Ron stared at her, completely surprised by her outburst.

"For your information, Mr Potter and his friend are no longer guests of this hotel," she said coldly.

"And just whose guests would they be?" Ron said.

She only stared at him in return.

Ron made to grab the bell from her again, and she jerked it back out of his reach. "The Daufuskie Island Beach Resort in Hilton Head currently has the privilege of hosting Mr Potter and his friends," she said hastily, scowling at Ron. "I could arrange for a car for you very quickly, if you like."

"That would be brilliant," said Ron, as graciously as possible considering he was still very frustrated.

"It won't be necessary."

Ron turned to see Malfoy leaning on the reception desk, looking utterly bored. "And why won't it be necessary?

"Because I'm giving you a ride, that's why," said Malfoy.

"Excuse me? I don't remember asking for your help," Ron spat. "Got something else you want to plant on me?"

"I certainly do not," he said, pushing Ron out into the lobby. "I'm just trying to help you out, because I am a generous and caring person, and I hate to see you floundering around like a second year Hufflepuff who doesn't know his arse from his elbow."

"You, help me?" Ron laughed bitterly. "You've done an absolutely brilliant job of helping me so far, you and your stupid box of dirt, so no offence but I don't really want any more help from you, okay?"

"Are you really up for driving five hours to Hilton Head this time of night?" asked Malfoy. "Do you even know how to get there? More to the point, do you even know which side of the road to drive on over here?"

"No," Ron mumbled.

"Then go back to where you stayed last night, and I'll come get you in the morning and I'll take you to Hilton Head."

Ron sighed. "I slept on the pavement in front of the British Consulate last night," he said.

"The pavement?" Malfoy said incredulously. "You slept outside?"

"Yes."

"I suppose it wasn't much different than that falling-in house of yours," Malfoy said. "Dear God, you are such a Gryffindor. You're just begging to get robbed again, aren't you?"

"So?" said Ron. "I don't have anything left to steal."

Malfoy threw his hands up in a 'giving up' gesture. "That's it. I'm not letting your hideously freckled face out of my sight for one more minute. You're going upstairs with me, though I'm not giving you my bed – you can sleep on the sofa – and you can stop acting like a homeless beggar. The last thing the wizarding world needs over here is to be discovered – don't you realise we're in the middle of the American Bible Belt? Didn't you ever pay attention in History of Magic? You know what they do to magical people over here!"

"That was hundreds of years ago, Malfoy," Ron said, barely stifling a yawn.

"Well, I'm not giving them anything to work with. Now come on before I change my mind and make you sleep on the pavement again tonight."

Given the choice between spending the night on the pavement again, or spending the night on Malfoy's sofa, the sofa was infinitely more appealing. So instead of arguing with Malfoy any more, he grudgingly followed him upstairs to his room.

"If you're going to stay in my room, you need to shower," said Malfoy, gesturing to the bathroom. "But don't touch anything."

"Like I'd want to touch anything of yours, Malfoy," Ron grumbled, closing the bathroom door behind him.

The shower felt wonderful, and Ron cheerfully ignored Malfoy's instructions not to touch anything, helping himself to the multitude of soaps and shampoos Malfoy had arranged on the side of the tub. He also helped himself to the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, even though it was a little on the small side.

When he emerged from the bathroom, leaving his wet towels all over the floor, Malfoy had ordered room service.

"I didn't want to hear you moaning all night about how hungry you are, Weasley," Malfoy said by way of explanation.

Ron didn't particularly care for Malfoy's motivation at the moment; the food was delicious, and there was plenty of it, and he ate until he thought he might explode. There was also wine, and while Ron didn't know anything about alcohol besides Firewhisky and butterbeer, he really liked this wine. It sort of made Malfoy's presence halfway tolerable.

"So, do you have a plan for when you see Potter again?" Malfoy said after a while.

"Nope, not that it's any of your business," Ron said around a mouthful of pecan pie.

"I thought you were good at chess, Weasley."

Ron swallowed his pie and chased it with the rest of his wineglass. "What's chess got to do with it?"

"Hello – strategy? Don't you have some kind of strategy to try to get Potter back? Something besides bullshit?"

"I don't need bullshit to get Harry back," Ron said. Suddenly he was wishing he hadn't ate that second piece of pie, and his stomach churned uncomfortably. He refilled his wineglass, moreso to have something to do besides look at Malfoy than anything else.

"It's a wonder your side even won the war," Malfoy said, rolling his eyes, "if people like you were in charge."

"At least I was on a side," Ron snapped.

"I don't get you at all," said Malfoy. "Why are you wasting all this time on Potter if he's clearly gone insane? Why are you chasing after him? Why don't you just go home and forget about him? After what he's done to you?"

"Because I love him!" Ron blurted.

"You ... love him?" Malfoy said this in a way that made Ron think the concept of love was totally foreign to him.

"Yeah, I love him," Ron said. "I think I've always loved him, and I have to do this, because if he doesn't come back... if he doesn't come back, I'm afraid I'll just shrivel up or something and I won't be able to love anyone again." He couldn't believe he'd just made that admission to Malfoy, of all people, and he took a huge swallow of wine to make himself forget he'd just said that.

Malfoy was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "That's the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard in my life. Nobody cares about anyone else that much."

"You've never cared about anyone like that?" Ron asked.

"If I did, I certainly wouldn't admit it," said Malfoy.

Ron snorted. "Well, if you did, maybe you wouldn't have that little prob-lem we aren't supposed to talk about..."

"I told you, it's not a problem!" said Malfoy, his cheeks flushing pink. "It's just temporary. I've been under a lot of stress lately, and that'll be over soon, and then – I'll be back to business as usual."

"Riiight," said Ron. "Well, if your 'stress' has anything to do with that dumb box of dirt you hid in my backpack, you've got it back now, so – why are you even following me around anymore?"

Malfoy shifted in his chair, looking guilty. "I – er – well, I feel sorry for you, I guess."

"Oh ho, I must have had more to drink than I thought," said Ron.

"Or maybe I hang around because I enjoy watching you make a complete and total idiot out of yourself over Potter," Malfoy said. "Fainting in the hotel lobby – what kind of self-respecting wizard –"

"Shut up, Malfoy," said Ron, refilling both their wineglasses.

Before long, they were both far too drunk to stay up any longer, and Ron loudly announced, "I'm going to bed."

"No, you're going to sofa," said Malfoy. "You're not getting my bed."

"Fine, whatever," said Ron. He curled up on the sofa, using his bag as a pillow, and closed his eyes.

"Don't you want a pillow?" said Malfoy.

"Oh no, said Ron. "I don't trust you not to plant another box of dirt or Merlin-knows-what-else in my bag while I'm sleeping."

Malfoy said something fairly acidic in return, but Ron was too far gone to really hear him.

It must have been some really good wine, or maybe it was that the sofa felt incredibly comfortable compared to airplane seats and the side of the street, but Ron had the most incredible dream that night.

He and Harry were back at home, back in their bed where they belonged, the bed with the slightly squeaky spring on Harry's side and the little dip in the mattress on Ron's side. Harry was back in his arms where he belonged, and Ron threaded his fingers through the soft hair at the back of Harry's neck. It was softer and thinner than Ron remembered it, but sometimes things were wonky in dreams and didn't make sense.

"Harry," Ron whispered, and he could feel Harry's arms tense around him, as if he were about to push Ron away, and Ron sought out Harry's mouth with his. He couldn't let Harry push him away – and when he finally caught Harry's lips, Harry was hesitant, almost clumsy, like he'd been the first time they'd kissed in the Room of Requirement after a DA meeting. Their rhythm was off, the feeling unfamiliar, and Ron pressed into the kiss, wanting to make it like it used to be.

He had to have Harry back. Harry was like oxygen to him; if he couldn't have Harry, he'd suffocate and die.

And so he kissed Harry as deeply as he could, and Harry was responding to him, his tongue soft and warm in Ron's mouth, and Ron felt like he could breathe Harry in in great big heaving lungfuls and never get enough of him.

"Tell me you won't leave me again," Ron said, but Harry wouldn't reply. Ron could feel Harry's hands sliding into his bathrobe, making his skin shiver and tingle, but Harry still wouldn't say anything.

"Promise me," said Ron. "You have to promise." He felt like crying, because Harry wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't promise him anything, and if he wouldn't promise he'd leave again, but then he felt Harry's arms slide around him, pulling him close, and a soft shhhh in his ear, and Ron would take that as enough. He'd make it be enough.