Summer Daze

Bite my lip and close my eyes
Take me away to paradise
I'm so damn bored I'm going blind!!!
And loneliness has to suffice
Slipping away to paradise

--"Longview," Green Day

Backyard of the Burrow
St. Ottery Catchpole, England
June 31, 1995

Summer. No school. A time for rest and relaxation.

The air was thick with heat and humidity, and the sun's bright orangey-gold rays glared over everything: it reflected in the shallow pond, further wilted the grass that had gone from green to brown, caused shimmering heat waves in the distance, and filtered through the branches of the tree he was lying under for shade. Perspiration trickled down his face so profusely that it was like someone had splashed a bucket of water over him. He wished that had been the case. He wasn't doing anything in particular, just lazing around far from view to get out of his chores. But it was hot, very hot. He yearned to sneak back to the house and grab a refreshing glass of ice-cold soda or an ice pop out of the freezer. Doing that, he realized, would only get him caught. If not by his strict brother Percy, definitely his sharp-eyed mother. No, he'd just have to lie out here until he melted into a pool of sweat.

With his hands clasped behind his neck, propping up his head, he looked at the sky above through the gaps in the leaves. It was the deepest shade of blue imaginable, and not a single cloud flitted across it. He would have welcomed the clouds any day, to block out all that sunshine. Cirrus, mainly...possibly a nimbus...anything, it didn't matter. This was the worst summer England had experienced in a long while; the temperature was rising so high that he wondered if he was really in St. Ottery Catchpole or in the sandy, dry Sahara Desert.

He amused himself for a moment, imagining him and his friends, sitting astride camels and going along a vast, trail-less, arid region at a snail's pace. Despite their clothing, they didn't seem affected by the heat at all. He and Harry were dressed in long white robes that covered every inch of their bodies, and Hermione was wearing some sort of sheer lavender material that was light and nearly see-through. Funny, that's how she looked in any other picture in his mind...

Oddly enough, Malfoy and his goons were there too, plodding across the desert on foot. At least Crabbe and Goyle were; Draco, in elaborate golden robes, was riding on some sort of sedan next to Pansy Parkinson, who was dressed in nothing but a metallic-colored bikini and fanning him with an enormous palm frond. Ron shuddered. The image was disgusting. Then his camel kicked up a storm of sand, which showered over the four Slytherins, who choked and tried to brush the grains off themselves.

Ron wiped the back of his palm against his drenched forehead. This weather was making him slightly mental. A bee buzzed around his nose, and he swatted at it, trying to shoo it away --

"RONALD WEASLEY!"

He sat up abruptly, panic sweeping over him. He was doomed this time. Where to hide, where to hide? There was nowhere he could go... He crawled around behind the tree and pressed his back against the trunk, daring to peek over his shoulder. There was his mother, only yards away, her hands on her hips and her wand in her other hand. Normally, she was caring and gentle, but at the moment, she seemed about as caring and gentle as a manticore. She stalked around the lawn, searching behind every thorny bush, any sort of plant or object he could be hiding behind. Of course, she spotted his tree in an instant.

"Ronald Weasley, you better come out before the count of ten, or I'll give you such a walloping with my broomstick—"

He winced. His mother had only once resorted to using her broomstick as a violent weapon, and that was when Fred had given him an Acid Pop when he was seven, sizzling a gaping hole in his tongue. Fred's earsplitting howls of pain had been somewhat satisfying, but definitely not a pleasant sound. Facing the prospect of beating like that, he'd take scrubbing the grimy kitchen floor with Bundimum polish any day.

Ron stood up and braced himself for the workload he was about to receive.

"You," his mother said, breathing fire. She poked her finger into his ribcage, which hurt considerably. "I better see you working this time. Next time you just sit around like that or get Ginny to do your chores for you, I will get out my broomstick; you can count on that. Now let's see, what should I have you do...?" She hesitated thoughtfully.

While massaging his ribs, he winced, expecting a harsh blow.

"De-gnome the garden," she said finally, turning away. "Before your father gets home and decides he wants to make a habitat for them."

He breathed a sigh of relief. That was all? Well, that was a cinch; he'd be finished in no time, and then he could return to sitting around, sipping a cool glass of lemonade through a crazy straw...

A dirty rag was tossed right into his face. "And once you've done that, you can dust the furniture, sweep all the floors, clean yours and the twin's bathroom, weed and water the garden, mow the lawn, do all the laundry -- yes, even Charlie's, I don't care how much dragon dung he's got all over it -- and fix your room up."

Ron flumped onto the ground.

"And do it NOW!"

He groaned and heaved himself back to his feet. So much for rest and relaxation.

My mind goes blank again
Think of nothing but you
I've waited; I'm lonely
You faded; I'm jaded
There's too much time
Wasting my time

--"Wasting My Time," Mest

Lying sprawled on his bed and staring at the ceiling, Ron had scarcely been so exhausted in his life. Yet all those chores had left him longing not for sleep, but for some kind of happiness. Happiness that couldn't be attained by lying down bored. Happiness that couldn't be attained alone. He needed a friend at the moment. His brothers and sister hardly counted as friends. Bill was his favorite brother, but it wasn't the same as his friendship with Harry and Hermione.

Hermione...

He groaned. Why am I thinking about her again? Why have I been thinking about her so much lately? He just couldn't help it. Even before this vacation had started, she had been on his mind. It began sometime around the middle of fourth year, those thoughts about her.

Usually it involved them being someplace they would never in a million years end up at, like on some tropical island in the middle of the Pacific, or up on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower. They were all ridiculous and impossible, really... And each of them seemed to end with her in his embrace, and they'd be kissing.

Ron shook his head violently. What on earth compelled him to think these things? This is Hermione, he reminded himself. She's my best friend. Not my girlfriend.

Why not?

It was that annoying little voice in the back of his head, the one that always spoke up precisely when he didn't want it to. It always spoke the truth, the truth he didn't want to admit; or it brought up questions, questions he didn't want to answer.

Because, he thought lamely, because friends just don't fall in love with each other...

Sure they do.

Not me and Hermione, he argued firmly, stubbornly.

'Hermione and I.'

See, now you're definitely not my mind speaking. I would never correct myself in grammar.

Don't try to change the subject. Hermione is perfect for you.

We've never gotten along; we're always disagreeing over everything...

Differences make a relationship interesting. How fun would it be if you were exactly the same?

I can't believe I'm actually considering myself in a relationship with her. We'd argue incessantly about the littlest things, like we always do, and then we'd break up in less than a day. It would completely ruin our friendship.

You're scared.

Am not.

Then why can't you admit how you feel?

Maybe because there's nothing to admit—

Denial is a very powerful thing.

So is schizophrenia, which I seem to have right now. Talking to myself...what's gotten into me?

Love, the voice said wisely.

Oh, go away.

I'm part of you. I don't go away.

Which is why I'm seriously considering suicide.

You're running away from your feelings, trying to cast them aside. But you can't hide them forever. Eventually you're going to have to accept that Hermione has become more than a friend to you.

He pulled his pillow over his head and shut his eyes tightly. No. She's just my friend. That's all she'll ever be.

Fine, don't believe me. Get a second opinion.

Second opinion? Who—? The answer came to him almost instantly. He had five older brothers, one of them had to have gone through this at some point in their life... Since there was no way he'd ask his father, Percy was out of the question, and Fred and George would never take his problem seriously, that left two. He'd never be able to ask Charlie. Charlie was just as easily distracted as he was. When the conversation got too awkward, he'd comment on dragons or Quidditch. There was only one option...

* * *

Knock, knock.

Bill looked up from his Daily Prophet. He had just been reading a very interesting article about another possible goblin uprising, which might seriously affect his job position...

"Bill, are you in there?" a voice called.

"Yeah," he answered, casting his newspaper aside and walking to his door. "What is it, Ron? Time for dinner already?"

"No, it's not that... I was -- uh -- wondering if we could talk."

He opened the door and peered at his youngest brother. "Sure. What about?" He let Ron inside, closing the door behind him, and then he sat down on his chair at his desk. "Did you hear about the Cannons—Wasps match? Jenkins (Cannon's Beater) took his own Bludger to the head and—"

"Not Quidditch."

Bill looked up. "You sound serious."

"I am. You see, it's..."

He raised his hand, stopping him. "Ohhh," he said understanding. "No need to say any more. It's girl trouble. Am I right?"

"You're right," Ron said quietly.

"Hmmm." Bill nervously fiddled with his ponytail. "Well, Ron, you know I hate these talks—"

"I know."

"—but I'll help. So what's the situation?"

Ron twisted his hands in his lap. His ears had gone very red, and he stammered, "I -- well -- there's -- er -- I have this friend—"

Bill snickered. "'A friend,' he said skeptically. "Right."

"Harry," he invented hastily. "Harry, he -- um -- he has a crush on this girl. His friend, actually. Hermione."

"The scarlet woman?" he asked, obvious enjoying this.

"She's not a scarlet woman!" Ron protested, his entire face glowing crimson.

"I read that Witch Weekly article, okay, Ron? But didn't Harry say that Hermione wasn't his girlfriend? We all know that Rita Skeeter loves to make things up."

Damn. Ron had forgotten that Bill had been right there that day Harry told Mrs. Weasley that she had no reason to be cross with Hermione. "Fine," he said, aggravated. "I have a crush on the scarlet—on Hermione." He crossed his arms and started breathing very heavily. I just said it, he thought in amazement. I just admitted that I have feelings for Hermione.

Told you so.

Shove off.

"And what's the problem with that?" Bill asked, bringing Ron back to his senses.

"I told you. She's my friend. And I couldn't -- I just couldn't—"

"Well, I see what you mean, but that doesn't mean it could never happen. Have you ever heard the saying, 'Friends make the best lovers?'"

"Yeah," he answered, making a face. "It disgusts me."

Bill grinned. "Ron, it makes perfect sense that you've developed feelings for Hermione, seeing as how she's the closest girl to you. You probably know her better than any other girl. On the other hand," he said contemplatively, "she could just be a very attractive friend."

"Bill," he complained.

"Hey, we're guys," he pointed out. "And you're a teenager, so—"

"So I'm chocked full of teenage hormones," he said impatiently. "I know, I know. I don't want to have 'the talk' again. I just want advice. What am I supposed to do?"

"Why don't you tell her?"

He scoffed. "Um, because she would know?" (I know that line is from somewhere, but I can't place it at the moment... Friends, I think.)

Bill rolled his eyes, laughing. "You never know. She could feel exactly the same way, but she just doesn't want to admit it for the same reasons. Just tell her. What's there to lose?"

Everything, he thought. "My dignity? My friend?" I don't want to lose Hermione over something so stupid as this. "And plus," he added, remembering, "she couldn't possibly like me. She likes some Bulgarian prat who's too old for her." He scowled.

"Ah. Krum," he said knowingly.

"Exactly. She has her ever-so-precious Vicky, and I just—"

"Are you sure she likes Krum?" Bill asked.

He thought about that question; really thought about it for the first time. He'd always just assumed that Hermione was in love with him, no question. He never considered that Krum's undying love might have been unrequited... "I -- I don't know..."

"I'm telling you, Ron. You've got to talk to her. Or at least someone else who might know. Someone who's seen everything you have, but who isn't quite as biased. You know, a second opinion."

"You're my second opinion!" he exclaimed.

"Why don't you ask Harry?"

Ron blinked. "Harry?"

"Sure," he said. "Harry would know, wouldn't he? I mean, Hermione is his friend. Maybe she's told him. Even if she hasn't, tell him how you feel about her anyway. He might be able to help you in your situation. I don't know enough about your relationship with Hermione to judge what you should do."

"Would you not call it a 'relationship?'" he asked, irritated. "But...maybe you're right. I guess... Harry...even though he's not exactly a romance consultant..." Understatement of the millennium, he thought. Harry was quite possibly even worse with matters of love than he was. But he was all there was...besides asking Hermione herself, which was definitely out of the question. Ron stood up. "All right, I'll owl him. Thanks, Bill."

"No problem," he said. "Good luck."

As Ron exited Bill's room, he thought about that. 'Good luck?' What do I need luck for?

Trust me, the voice said. You'll need it.

* * *

Once he got back to his room, however, the prospect of asking Harry for advice about Hermione seemed a lot harder than it did when he was talking about it with Bill. Would Harry understand? No, Harry was taken with Cho Chang, and that was an extremely different situation... Ron found it hard to believe that any girl in the world would scream at the top of their lungs and pitch their knickers at Harry -- except for one: the one he actually liked. But Harry always seemed to get not the things he wanted, but the things Ron did. Oh no...does that mean he'll get Hermione too?

Ridiculous. They're just friends.

How do I know she doesn't fancy him? The twins said that she kissed Harry on the cheek at King's Cross. She didn't kiss me.

The twins like to make up stories.

But what if it was true?

Even so, it couldn't have meant anything romantic. Think about it, the guy witnessed Cedric Diggory's death and survived against You-Know-Who returned to full power and a crowd of Death Eaters. If anything makes a guy worthy of a friend kissing him on the cheek, that does.

That's it, huh? That means Harry's won her. My adventure life isn't that exciting, and my love life is a million times worse.

And he thought about his [nonexistent] love life. Let's see...first there was Celestina Warbeck... But that's when he was nine. Plus, she was an internationally famous singing sorceress. That didn't count. That was about as real as Hermione's love for Gilderoy Lockhart.

Katie Bell... He remembered when he had just turned eleven. Fred and George were second years and had just gotten onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team the previous year. Over the summer holidays, they invited all their school friends to the Burrow, and he happened to notice Katie. She was very pretty, with her long, blonde hair and bright eyes. But that was a simple crush that didn't mean anything.

When he got to Hogwarts, there were dozens of attractive girls. In his first year, his eye was on Lavender Brown...until he found out that she was a mindless, giggly ditz. And so that ended. Padma was, as Dean said, one of the best-looking girls in their year, but how could he focus on her? He was too busy seething at Hermione at the Yule Ball.

His feelings for Hermione were different than his feelings for all the other girls. It was so strong that all his past crushes seemed like nothing in comparison. Somehow, she managed to make him feel all strange and tingly if she ever touched him, and he became so discombobulated and disorientated when she hugged him or they were alone together. But he was too scared to admit any of that...so he would argue with her instead, to hide how he was really feeling.

Why is it that it's so easy for me to talk to Hermione when it's an argument or sarcastic comment, but anything serious, like love, is impossible to bring up? If he told her, she would probably just stare at him for a few seconds and then burst out laughing, refusing to take him seriously. Yeah, that's what would happen. So he always kept it locked away...the feelings were pushed to the back of his heart, and the words he wanted to tell her were simply stored in his mind to never be said aloud.

Of course, he had never told anyone about any of this. He guarded his love life more closely than Fluffy guarded the Sorcerer's Stone. The only time he had ever told Harry anything about his love life had been about Fleur Delacour, and well -- everyone knew about that.

His thoughts now strayed to the part-Veela, French champion, with her long, silvery sheet of hair that fanned out without wind, her dazzling sapphire eyes... She was beautiful, all right. Then he thought of Hermione, with her bushy mess of hair, and her dull brown eyes, her previous oversized front teeth. But no...that wasn't right at all. He remembered how she looked at the Yule Ball, in periwinkle robes that complemented her much better than their customary black. Her hair hadn't been bushy, and it had been done up in an elegant bun. Her teeth were normal-sized, and her eyes had shone and sparkled.

She was with Krum, he thought dully.

And suddenly, her voice echoed through his head. "Well, if you don't like it, then you know what the solution is, don't you?"

"Oh yeah?" he asked hotly. "What's that?"

"Next time there's a ball, ask me before anyone else does, and not as a last resort!"

She hadn't been a last resort at all. Besides Fleur, which was absolutely nothing but lust, she had been the only girl he had really wanted to go with ever since he had discovered that there was going to be a ball. But he had been ashamed to admit it, afraid to ask her.

No, he thought desperately, don't tell me I'm actually saying I like Hermione...

You said it a long time ago.

I didn't want to ask her...I meant what I said; I just didn't like the idea of her going with Krum...

Uh huh. That's what we call 'jealousy.'

It was not jealousy! It was -- it was --

--Jealousy.

Aw, shit. He flumped onto his bed, glancing around at all the orange posters on his walls. "The Cannons, the Cannons," he said aloud, desperately trying to clear his mind and think of something else. "So, Joey Jenkins was injured by his own Bludger that he hit... Hopefully it didn't hit him too hard, or he wouldn't be able to play... That would really suck, not that the Cannons don't suck already..."

His eyes widened in horror. "What the hell am I saying? I am really losing it."

He made up his mind and strode over to his desk, where he plopped down in his chair. Gathering the supplies he needed, he wondered what precisely he would write to Harry about. Like he ever needed a reason to bombard Harry with owls about the Cannons' latest match, complaints of Viktor Krum or his brothers, the weather, the latest invention of Gred and Forge's.

'Dear Harry,' he wrote, 'tell me I'm not going crazy.'

He could just imagine his best friend's curious, bemused expression. "You're not going crazy."

'I know what you're thinking. I'm just being myself, right? But I've been thinking all sorts of crazy thoughts that are definitely unlike myself, and I just can't help it. How do you know if you've fallen for your best friend?'

Ron's eyes skimmed over the paragraph to check it -- and then his eyes widened. Oh God. He crumpled the parchment tightly in his fist, shaping it into a ball. He'll think I'm confessing my love for him.

Pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment and dipping his quill in the inkbottle, he pondered what to write next. He'd have to think this out carefully. No way in hell was he going to have his friend believe he possessed feelings for him. He could scarcely believe he possessed feelings for another friend, a certain brown-eyed, bushy-haired, know-it-all friend. This is too weird, he thought. I can't be in love with Hermione.

You are so in love, his mind said wisely.

Oh, shut up.

Arguing with himself had become a constant habit. Yes, Ron Weasley had definitely reached a new low.

On the bright side, no matter what happens, you'll always end up the winner of the argument.

"Hopeless," he moaned, banging his head repeatedly against the wooden tabletop. "Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless..."

"Your situation with Hermione, or yourself in general?"

He lifted his head just enough to mumble to words, "Shut up." It took a few seconds before he fully comprehended... He suddenly sat up straight in his chair, a wild gleam in his brown eyes. "What did you say?" he demanded.

"What, that you're one pathetic git?" George asked, puzzled.

He waved his hand, brushing the statement aside impatiently. "No, no... The Hermione bit -- what did you mean by that?"

"Obvious isn't it?" he said simply, shrugging his shoulders. "You're in love."

Ron felt hot anger surging through him, and he clenched his fists. "You eavesdropped on me and Bill!"

"Bill and I," he corrected, sounding uncharacteristically like Percy or that bothersome voice in his head. "And for that matter, why thank you, but no."

"Yeah, more like you and Hermione after the Yule Ball." It was a new speaker, although identical to the last voice.

His twin shook his head. "Even before. It was all too obvious."

"Too obvious," Fred agreed, nodding eagerly.

Ron dropped his head onto the desk once again. "How? I -- I mean, the pointless bickering?"

"Lover's spats," George replied, at the same time Fred answered, "Shameless flirting."

"Constant glares of loathing?"

"Furtive, stolen glances," said Fred.

"Clashing personalities?" he suggested, sounding miserable.

George grinned. "Opposites attract."

"She fancies Krum," Ron said finally, the tone of his voice now completely dead.

"Nonsense," Fred said dismissively. "Krum fancied her; it was quite clear that she didn't like him back."

"Really," he said. "Then maybe you can explain why she's going to visit him in Bulgaria this summer."

"Oh, she's gotten all her travel plans set, then?" George asked.

He paused. He hadn't even bothered asking her about that. He'd tried to avoid it in every letter, and apparently, so had she. "Well, er -- not exactly."

Fred clapped him on the back. "Then stop moping, mate."

"Yeah," his twin said. "You could be doing something far more productive, useful..."

"—Like our chores."

"You wish," Ron said flatly. "You know how many chores mum made me do? I've done enough to last me all summer. Do them yourself."

"But we're so very busy," Fred responded. "Can we borrow Pigwidgeon by the way?"

He opened his mouth to say no, but before he could even get the word out, George had already crossed his room and picked up Pig's cage.

"Thanks!" he said cheerfully, bustling out, with Pigwidgeon hooting shrilly.

Ron glared after them, then to his unfinished letter, which still lay in front of him. True, it was quite possibly one of the worst letters he had ever written, but still. Now he had absolutely no way to send it. The last time he had sent Errol off to Privet Drive, he had passed out for three days after the trip. Anyhow, his father had just sent it to Mad-Eye Moody, a reply to his account of pocket-watches with suspicious looks on their faces. The only other owl he had access to was Hermes, and he never exactly had access to Percy's owl. The past summers, Percy had been too busy sending love letters back and forth with Penelope Clearwater; this summer and the last, he had been too busy sending things about his work.

"Oh well, that's just too bad. I won't be able to tell Harry -- what a shame..." He smiled, but for some reason, it didn't feel right. He had a weird sort of ache in him. Like if he didn't tell someone, he'd burst. But he'd already told Bill...and Fred and George had found out too...

You need to tell Hermione.

"Nah uh," he said, sounding about five-years-old, and not fifteen.

You're dying to.

Dying to? I would die if I told her! What exactly would I say, huh? 'Dear Hermione, I think I'm in love with you, but since so obviously don't feel the same, kindly disregard that statement and act like it never happened, so as not to ruin our friendship.' Right. That's even stupider than the letter I wrote that sounds like I'm telling Harry I love him.

You want to see her.

Well, of course I want to see her. I haven't seen her in about a month.

So invite her to visit you.

Huh?

Krum invited her to visit him, and he lives hundreds of miles away. You live much closer. What's wrong, you haven't got the guts?

'Course I've got the guts, he said angrily. I just -- I just...

You're so pathetic, Weasley.

You're part of me. Technically, you're pathetic too.

Hermione probably thinks you're pathetic too.

She does not! Ron nearly leaped out of his chair.

How would you know? ...Seeing as how you're too cowardly to tell her how you feel. Or even ask Harry how she feels about you.

I could ask Harry if I wanted to!

You want to.

"Argh," he said, flustered. He picked up his quill again, dipped it in the ink, and began to write furiously on the new sheet of parchment.

'Harry—

'So, how are the Muggles? Still treating you horribly, as usual? If you need food or anything, just owl me. Mum'll be more than happy to send enough food to last you all summer; she's never known anyone who enjoyed her cooking quite so much. She drove me crazy today, though; I cleaned about every inch of the house and backyard and did any possible chore she could find. I suppose you do that with the Muggles anyway.

'Hey, did you hear about the Cannons vs. Wasps match? Jenkins whacked a Bludger, but instead, it turned around and hit him right in the head -- but I guess you know what that feels like. Okay, I'll be honest here. There's a point to this letter, and it's not to talk about Quidditch. Percy reckons it's some kind of defense mechanism Charlie and I use when we don't want to admit what we really want to talk about.

'I want to talk about'...

He stopped, unable to write the name. It was too hard, he just couldn't do it. Maybe he shouldn't tell Harry at all. There were better things to talk about, after all... Like how he and the twins had lined Percy's room with hidden dungbombs. Or the sweets Charlie had brought back from Romania that were shaped like dragons and could make you breathe fire, kind of like Pepper Imps...

'Hermione.'

It took every bit of his willpower to get the word down, but he got it in the end. That was the hard part -- now came the even harder part.

'The reason I want to talk about Hermione is...is... Do you reckon she's gone to Bulgaria to visit Vick—I mean, Krum? I haven't owled her in a while. Supposing she is all the way in Bulgaria, Pig, and especially Errol, wouldn't be able to handle the trip. Fred and George 'borrowed' Pig again without my permission. What do you think, are they trying to blackmail someone again? Nah, I don't think so... Maybe one of them has a secret girlfriend or something.

'Sorry, I'm trying to keep on-topic here, but I just can't seem to. Denial, I think it is. Do you think I'm in denial, Harry? The twins say that it's all too obvious that I have feelings for Hermione. Is it? I can't even admit that I like her; how can everyone else tell? Do you think she knows? Do you think...do you think she feels the same?

'Uh, anyway, it's been nice talking to you, owl me back soon. See you later --

'Ron'

He finished the last part hastily and then held the letter up, rereading it. This one wasn't all that good either, but it was the best he could do. He wasn't going to go spilling his heart's innermost contents to anyone, not even Harry. Especially not to Harry, for that matter. Harry was his best friend, but there were a lot of feelings he felt and things in his heart that were best kept to himself. So should he leave the letter as it was, or should he dare to add more?

'P.S. Do you think I'm insane to feel this way about Hermione? If you told me in first year that I'd fall for her, I'd tell you that you were off your rocker. We're just so unlike, and even if we did get together, it would never work, and... Well, you know us both the best. What do you think? Okay, sorry to bother you.'


At least he had no intention of really sending this. It had just been more to vent his feelings than actually owl it to Harry, since the twins had taken Pig anyway. This got some stuff off his chest that he needed to get rid of.

"It was worth a try anyway," he thought, getting up from his desk and heading back over to his bed for a nap. All this stuff was giving him a major headache. He drifted off to sleep, forgetting all about Hermione for once, forgetting about Bill and the twins, forgetting about the letter he had written...

"Ron, WAKE UP!"

A pillow was thrown into his face, quite hard, despite its feathery contents.

He gurgled something unintelligible and rolled over onto his other side. And he had been having such a good dream, too... It had been a new one, on the Astronomy Tower. It was perfectly cliche, but seemed much more realistic than the fantasies that took place in France or an island out in the Caribbean. Maybe it was a vision of the future.

Ha, you're still dreaming.

"Go away," he said out loud. Though he was actually talking to himself, Ginny assumed he was speaking to her. It fit for the present situation also.

"Ron," Ginny whined, somehow managing to stretch the word into three syllables.

"What do you want?" He sat up in his bed, extremely irritable. He blinked the sleepiness out of his eyes, and his vision came into focus. His younger sister was standing at the foot of his bed with her hands on her hips, looking thoroughly exasperated.

"Sorry to interrupt your dreams about Hermione, but an owl came for you this morning, and I figured you'd like to read it." Her eyes gleamed as she held out an envelope addressed in Harry's handwriting.

Good thing he was too tired to catch what Ginny had said about Hermione. She just smiled innocently, the letter extended towards him. He took it, eyeing it and his sister warily. "How would you know that I'd want to read—?" His eyes widened when he turned it over. The seal had already been broken. "Ginny!" he hollered. "You read my mail!"

"It wasn't me!" she said guiltily. She ran out of his bedroom and slammed the door behind her, giggling.

"Ugh." He slumped back onto his back, holding the letter up to the light and letting his eyes skim over it. When he did, he wished he had never woken up. But -- but -- it couldn't -- no -- it just couldn't be—

He practically flew out of his bed across the room to his desk. He was in complete panic right now, sifting through all the junk, the mindless scribbling and doodled drawings, which had collected there into one massive pile. He even wrenched the drawers open and rummaged through everything inside, things he didn't even know he still had. And yet—

It wasn't there.

"Oh no," he moaned distraughtly, clutching at his head, "please, don't tell me—"

His door creaked open.

"Ginny, you're back," he said, not bothering to look at the door. "Tell me, you didn't happen to see a letter on my desk here, did you—?"

"Ron, what's with all the noise?" said Percy disapprovingly from the doorway. "I've got a big day today, and I was trying to sleep, and you're up here slamming drawers and stomping around. At first I thought it was the ghoul. Sounded more like Peeves."

"Sorry," he said ineffectually, "but I was just looking for a letter I had written—"

"Oh, the letter that was on your desk two days ago?" Percy asked. "I was looking to see if you had a spare bottle of green ink, and I happened to come across it... I figured I'd do you a favor and send it off, since I saw the twins running off with Pigwidgeon, and Bill told me you had something important to send."

Ron had sunk onto a heap on his floor. "No, no, no, please tell me you didn't..."

"What's wrong, Ron? I was just trying to do you a favor," he said ingenuously. "I thought you'd appreciate it."

"Well, I don't!" he said, his face reddening. He drove Percy out of his room and then slammed the door after him. "Never do me a favor again!"

Maybe he was overreacting, but this was a serious matter here. He ambled back to his bed, where the letter from Harry was still laying, half-hidden underneath his rumpled sheets. What a nightmare... He glanced down at the letter again; stared at it long enough until the words blurred into a big blob of ink. The words, however, were—

'Dear Ron,

'I got your letter. Strange you're asking me about this, but -- er... Sorry, you have no idea how weird it is to write this. I mean, you and Hermione are my best friends. You know what, though? I actually can picture you two together. Sometimes, I get irritated listening to you two bickering like an old married couple, but everyone can tell you really care about each other. The way Hermione would look positively furious when you gaped at Fleur, or how you were on her case about Krum. I'm glad you've finally gotten over your denial, because it felt odd to just keep silent and nod along with you, when I really thought Hermione had gotten the point much better.

'Anyway, I don't think Hermione went to Bulgaria; she said Krum still hasn't owled her yet. Then again, he's pretty busy; international Quidditch star and all that. As for Hermione's feelings for you... That's just one of those things you have to ask her about. So...I guess that's enough about that. It's so bizarre to think about it, since we've kind of acknowledged it but never really said it in words. Good luck with everything. If what I see between you and Hermione is real, you won't need it.

'Harry

'P.S. Muggles are unbearable, as always. Dudley gained twenty pounds from cheating on his diet so much, so the Dursleys gave up on it. But tell your mum she can send food any time; it's loads better than the dog food the Dursleys give me. Shame about all the chores. Maybe I can get you a house-elf for Christmas.'


Ron appreciated Harry's help. He understood how awkward it must have been for Harry to read his letter and try to write something back. If he had found himself in that situation, he wouldn't have known how to deal with it. Harry pulled it off admirably, without even making a snide comment along the way. Still...as his advice had also been to ask Hermione, he wished he had never written the letter to him in the first place.

Right now, he hated everything. He hated Ginny for snooping in his private business. He hated Percy for sending the letter, even if he had been trying to be helpful, something he hardly ever was. He hated Bill, even though he had just been giving him some advice, which really seemed reasonable at the time. He hated Viktor Krum, even though he had no solid reason to at the moment. He hated Harry, for reasons that had nothing at all to do with this mess. He even hated Hermione, just for being herself and so damn lovable. But mostly, he hated himself for causing all this trouble by falling for her in the first place.

* * *

Here he was, lazing around under the tree again, complaining about the heat. By keeping himself scorched and sunburned, he had other things to worry about than Hermione. But somehow, the thoughts just kept surfacing anyway. It was all the same arguments, playing like a broken record, over and over again...

Tell her.

I can't.

She needs to know. You need to know if she feels the same.

She doesn't.

How can you be so sure?

Because -- because she just couldn't.

Don't blame this on Krum.

I didn't say anything about Krum. You just brought it up right now.

If you want someone to blame, blame yourself.

I have been blaming myself.

So do something about it then.

I can't.

And so it went, on and on and on... All the 'cant's' and 'doesn't's' and 'won't's.

Ron Weasley, you are one stubborn jackass.

So I've heard.

'We've just got to grit our teeth and do it.' Were those not your own words?

That was entirely different.

Not that different.

It was too.

Was not.

Yes it was.

Stop being so infantile. Wouldn't you much rather argue with Hermione than yourself?

If I do tell her how I feel, I'll never be able to talk to her again. For that matter, I wish I didn't have to talk to you -- er, me -- well, whatever you are -- ever again. I've heard of inner debate, but this is just ridiculous. I've been taking the term far too literally...

If you tell her, I can go away.

Can I get that on paper?

Why can't you just admit it? Admit it to yourself that you love her. You're past the stage of denial. Accept it. Stop trying to push those thoughts away and hide your feelings. You want this, this love thing. You want Hermione.

"Urgh," he said audibly. "I do not want Hermione."

"You really enjoy talking to yourself, don't you?" Fred commented, seemingly fascinated with Ron's behavior.

"If you only knew how much," he said dryly.

"You can talk to us, you know," George told him. "And when I say 'us,' I don't just mean Freddie and I. Everyone in the family knows."

"Face it, Ronniekins, everyone from here to Bulgaria knows," Fred added. "—Figuratively speaking, that is."

He hid his face with his hands. "I'll never be able to, will I? I just won't be able to accept it. If this was a book, it would drone on for pages and pages of meaningless drivel..." (Haha, precisely what I'm doing.) "It just won't get anywhere. I won't get anywhere with Hermione."

"Just go," George urged.

"I can't," he said for the billionth time. "Fate just wants to keep Hermione and I apart—"

"No, I mean go, seriously," he clarified. "Get up off your lazy ass, go to your room, and owl her already. Pig's back."

"What were you sending anyway?" he asked, with mild interest.

"As you've already gotten Ginny to believe we have secret girlfriends, there's no point in telling you. It would just ruin all the wonderful, imaginative ideas she's thought up." Fred grimaced. "She's spreading the rumor that I'm cheating on Angelina because I'm the secret admirer who sent that love letter to Eloise Midgen."

"Nah, that was me," George admitted.

His two brothers' heads whipped furiously over to face him.

"It was a joke," he said lamely, fidgeting slightly. "I didn't think she'd really tell everyone about it."

"'Oh, Eloise, dear, sweet Eloise, how I love thee so,'" his twin quoted, a dreamy look on his face. He and Ron rolled around in the grass, their laughter unending.

"I didn't mean it!" George insisted, his entire face about the color of the crimson sweater he was wearing. "It was just a mindless prank...like that Valentine we sent to Snape from McGonagall—"

"That was you?" Ron asked, impressed. "That owl came during the middle of our Potions hour. Snape looked ready to vomit into his cauldron, he was so embarrassed— But anyway, as much fun as these little anecdotes are, what did you send this time?"

"That's classified information," Fred answered, crossing his arms and putting on a deadpan expression.

"Top secret," George said.

"Why?" he challenged. "Another romantic poem to 'dear sweet Eloise,' was it?"

"Maybe," Fred suggested with a menacing smile that never meant anything good, "we sent a romantic poem to Hermione...from you." He poked a finger into Ron's chest.

"Hey, watch it, Mum poked me there two days ago and I still have a bruise—" Then the words hit him like a Bludger to the head. "You did what?"

"Figuratively speaking, that is." George smirked nastily.

Ron's eyes widened like circular orbs (as opposed to those square orbs). That was it. He was owling Hermione right now.

* * *

Maybe that had been their intent... Immediately after sending off a letter of apology to Hermione, the thought struck him. Maybe Fred and George knew that was just the motivation I needed to get up the guts to owl her. He smiled grimly. Too bad their plan didn't entirely work. He had owled Hermione...but nowhere in there did he mention his real feelings for her.

Yeah... he spoke to the voice in the back of his head. I've given up; you hear that? I'm not going to torture myself over this anymore. I've plain decided that I'll never tell her -- and hopes she doesn't find out.

You might be breaking her heart, you know.

What do you mean?

Why don't you figure that out. It wasn't a question, but a recommendation. So he thought. And thought. But he couldn't figure it out.

Ron's door came open, and George and Fred strolled into his bedroom, taking long strides and walking at an urgent pace. They cornered him in a second.

"We just saw Pigwidgeon take off," Fred said swiftly.

"But you didn't tell her," George accused; knowing Ron would comprehend just what he was referring to.

Fred backed Ron further into his chair, so that he was leaning against the wall now. He brought his face forward so close that Ron could count each and every freckle. "Did you?" It was the low, intimidating voice Snape was so apt at using.

"Er -- no." His voice came out a tiny squeak.

"That's what we figured," George said. "Which is why we're going to stand here and personally watch you write out that letter. We're going to see that you cross every 't' and dot every 'i' in 'I love you, Hermione.'"

"Um...there aren't any 't's' in that phrase," he said timidly.

"So you're gonna be a smart ass, are you?" George had fumbled around in Ron's desk and retrieved a sheet of parchment, a quill, and the bottle of green ink Percy had been looking for.

"Go ahead," Fred whispered. "Write."

Ron accepted the quill, his hand trembling and spilling a drop of ink on the desk. "Well," he said hurriedly, "I should probably clean that mess up, Mum'll be furious—"

The two twins gave him identical glares. "You're not going to use Mum as an excuse to get you out of writing this," George said.

"Ron!" a voice screamed. "Ginny said you didn't clean those algae out of the pond! Now I want you to come down here right this instan—"

"No problem, Mum!" he called back, dropping the quill and jetting out of his room before either of his brothers could stop him. Ironically, he had been saved by chores...for now.

Fred cursed. "Hermione is never going to find out from Ron; he's too big a prat to even just invite her to the house for one day."

George agreed. "I feel bad for Hermione, though..."

"Why?" his twin asked sharply.

"That letter we wrote..."

"Don't talk about that," Fred hissed, "Ron might be able to hear you."

But they heard his voice carry all the way from the bottom level. "It's no problem, Mum, I'd love to rid the pond of all the algae..."

"We can't let him find out," he went on. "Or anyone. We'd be killed for sure."

What have the twins been up to now? Ginny wondered from her hiding place behind the wall, where she was eavesdropping on them by the doorway.

"Krum is bound to tell her, Fred. I'm telling you, it was a stupid idea—"

Ginny's interest was captured. Krum? What's Viktor Krum got to do with this?

"He'll tell Hermione, and then she'll tell him that she wasn't the one who sent that poem to him," he insisted. "Tell me, why do we meddle in the pathetic love lives of two fourteen-year-olds? Well, Ron's fifteen, but what I'm getting at is—"

"Because we're Gred and Forge. We're unpredictable. We don't need a reason to do anything we do, and yet we do it. Like I told you, even if Krum does find out Hermione didn't write that poem, he'll just assume it was a member of his fan club. We all know how loony they are. They would try anything. No one's going to know it was us, okay?"

That's where you're wrong, Ginny thought, labeling this as wonderful blackmail for when (not if) the twins pulled some kind of prank on her. But even if they are Fred and George...why do they bother?

George answered her question. "That's right, it was just a deadline we had set ourselves. To get Ron to owl his confession, and possibly invitation, before Krum could..."

"So we carefully monitor Ron write and send it," Fred confirmed. "Tonight. We're not going to let him slip away again."

Good for the twins, then. Ginny felt some kind of satisfaction. Like Fred and George, like Harry, like everyone who knew Ron and Hermione, she was tired of seeing them skirt around their true feelings for each other. It was now or never...

When Hermione walked down to the kitchen for breakfast, her mother was spreading marmalade on a slice of toast with a butter knife, rifling through the mail, and her father was sipping a mug of steaming coffee, reading the London Times.

"Good morning," she said, plopping down onto her chair at the table. "Any interesting news?"

"You've had two owls," her mother said in a casual voice. After four years, she had come to accept this as perfectly normal, but the first twenty times or so, she had dived underneath the table, screaming at the top of her lungs. "I paid the Daily Prophet one the five Knuts, and the other dropped off a letter."

She handed Hermione her mail. Her first thought was -- Had Viktor finally contacted her like he had promised he would, possibly about his invitation to his home in Bulgaria? Maybe it was from either Harry or Ron, explaining their unusual letters? She tossed the Prophet aside. No interesting headlines were in the paper, ever since she had discovered Rita Skeeter's [illegal] secret. But the letter...

"There's no address," she commented. "It's not even addressed to me." The envelope was entirely blank. She slit it open and pilled out the sheet of parchment inside. She recognized the handwriting. By it's untidiness, it was definitely a boy's.

'Dear Hermione,' it said in the messy scrawl.

'I was wondering...'

"For goodness sake, not another of these letters again," she groaned. Her parents looked over at her peculiarly, and she just gave them a sheepish smile and returned to the letter.

'...if you're not doing anything over the summer, would you like to come and visit me?...'