Scattered

Ron sat hunched over on an empty cot, nervously fiddling with the sterile white sheets. A few yards away and behind thick curtains, Madame Pomfrey was examining Hermione; he couldn't hear their voices, so his mother must have Imperturbed the area for Hermione's privacy. Ron didn't want to intrude, he really didn't, but it was taking them a long time to finish. He didn't begrudge the wait but he wasn't reassured by it either. If there's something wrong...

Finally the curtains swung back and he stood and scanned his mother's face for any sort of sign. She was smiling and he took a deep breath, moving forward and craning his neck to try to see around her.

"She's fine, Ronald," Mum said, and moved aside.

Hermione's eyes sought his immediately and he knew his mother had been telling the truth: she really was okay. With a few long strides he was at her side, taking her small hand in both of his.

"Everything's alright, then?" he asked, for though he already knew the answer, he wanted to hear it from her lips.

She nodded... though, there was a hint of something, he could've sworn, crossing her features for just a moment, so swiftly he decided he must have imagined it. "Yes, I'm fine. Not even a potion to take."

"That's astounding," Ron said, taking up her light tone. "Madame Pomfrey, are you sure there isn't something foul-tasting she has to take for the next fortnight, or something?"

The nurse looked unsure. "Well, anyone can benefit from a good Vita-Drought; maybe, dear, you would be better off just in case--"

"No, I think your decision was right the first time, Poppy," his mother said with a comforting smile. "Hermione's just fine."

They thanked Pomfrey and left the Infirmary; Hermione swatted him on the arm as soon as his mum's back was turned. Ron grinned and once again grabbed her hand in his, holding onto it as tightly as before.

His mother hadn't been exaggerating, earlier: the castle was huge, it seemed to them as they followed her through the halls. Bigger than Grimmauld Place, definitely. As big as Hogwarts? Maybe. They'd need to explore the whole thing later, he thought, but preferably by light of day. Unlike Hogwarts, the walls were mostly unadorned -- no wizard's portraits, no tapestries. Just stone and wooden doors, thick red carpeting softening their footfalls on the floor, archways and windows. It was a bit dismal.

"Mum, are there more people here?" he asked.

"More than what, dear?"

"More than the ones who were around when we got here? The castle looks like it's mostly empty."

"Well, it is mostly empty yet," his mother conceded. "You'll meet a few more people tomorrow. And there's Penny, of course, and Arabella. She wasn't feeling well earlier, poor dear."

"Arabella Figg?" Ron asked, surprised. "The Squib who--"

Hermione interrupted him. "She's the woman who secretly watched over Harry all those years, isn't that right? In Little Whinging?"

His mother nodded. "Yes, that's the one. She brought young Ernie Macmillan here."

"Bill never mentioned her as being at one of the safehouses," Ron said.

"It was a last-minute thing. Ernie's parents didn't want him to come but, well, they changed their minds, and it was very good of Arabella to step in and lend a hand. We had to bring them directly here, of course, at that point."

Ron stopped abruptly in his tracks; Hermione's hand was still tightly clutched in his and she stumbled slightly, forced to stop along with him. "Ron, what is it?" she asked.

He couldn't speak at first. His jaw felt as if it had been wired with steel, he was clenching it so tightly.

He must have been gripping Hermione's hand too tightly as well. "Ow! Ron!" she said with a gasp, wrenching her hand away from his. "What's the matter with you?"

"Ron?" his mother asked, confused.

"I knew there was something," he said finally. "I kept feeling... I couldn't understand why I didn't feel better, when Dad explained... something still bothered me." He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. He didn't want to lose his temper like this, for Hermione's sake, if nothing else. "And now I know what it is. You're telling me that you had to bring Ernie Macmillan here right away, and I can't help but wonder why the bloody hell you didn't bring all of us here! Your sons, Ginny -- hell, Harry and Hermione, at least! Why were we all out there running for our lives when we could've been safe here with you?"

Hermione placed her hand on his arm. "Ron, I'm sure--"

He didn't look at her, didn't take his eyes off his mother. "I don't want to hear that it was all part of Dumbledore's Great Plan. I need a better answer than that. I deserve it, and so does Hermione." He paused, but couldn't help adding, "So does Neville."

In the silence that followed his words, Ron regretted some of them, of course. But on the whole, he felt lighter for having said them. He'd been chafing under Bill's refusal to provide answers and Hermione's insistence that they blindly accept whatever they were being asked to do, literally to the breaking point. The last twenty-four hours had, in contrast, been an overload of information, and it had taken until this moment for him to realize the one answer he hadn't received, and the one issue he had with everything they'd been told. Why had they been left on their own, in danger? Why?

Molly Weasley met her youngest son's gaze and sighed in resignation. "Come and sit here, then," she said, gesturing to a wooden bench against the wall. "I'll explain."

Ron allowed Hermione to lead him towards the bench and he sat next to his mother, cautiously. Hermione nestled against him on his other side, her hand warmly wrapped around his once more. He felt himself lean into her slightly, whether it was to gain comfort from her or to protect her, he couldn't say for sure.

"Do you think I've slept a wink in the past two months, away from you all like this?" his mother asked in a quiet, pained voice. "Do you think this is what I wanted? The night of the Order meeting, when we read our scroll, I pulled your father aside and said I wouldn't do it. I didn't care how smart Albus' plan was, I wasn't going to agree to scatter my family to the four winds. I wasn't going to let you and Ginny, above all, out of my sight."

"What changed your mind?" Ron asked. He felt a bit chagrined; he knew Mum wouldn't have wanted this, it wasn't a bit like her and he'd been wrong to accuse her of anything. Still, he needed to know how and why it had happened.

She didn't answer right away; finally, in the flickering torchlight of the dim castle hallway, she blew out an exasperated huff of air and looked annoyed -- with herself, with the world, but not with Ron. "Well, your father did most of it, of course. He talked on and on about how safe you'd all be, with the best members of the Order. He said they could keep you safer than we could. Then he talked about what we'd need to do, to make this place safe for all of you." She smiled. "And mostly he talked about how it could be, if we stayed the course and followed the plan, how in the end I'd have you all back again and we'd be here, together, and I'd never have to lose another night's sleep wondering where my sons were, or wondering if Ginny was okay. That's how he changed my mind." Her smile faded abruptly. "That, and what Albus said to me about the alternatives."

"What were they?" Ron couldn't help asking.

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Well, I do."

His mother's eyes flashed fire for a moment, and then turned to tears. She reached out and cradled his face with her hands, saying, "The alternative was that we couldn't protect all of you any other way. The alternative was that you'd end up fighting. And that some of you would..."

"Some of us would die," Hermione said. "In battle."

His mum nodded.

"But some of us did die," Hermione whispered, tears trailing down her cheeks.

"I know, dear girl, I know," his mother said, and she reached out to squeeze Hermione's hand. She took a shaky breath. "Arthur says... he says the hardest thing to accept is that getting through this with no losses at all was too much to hope for. That we had to think about minimizing loss instead. Saving as many as we could."

Hermione nodded sadly. "He's right, of course." She sniffed and sat up a little, trying to be brave, Ron could tell. He watched her face settle into familiar, determined lines; she was taking Dad's words to heart, looking at the options and accepting that the best scenario had been followed, and rightly so.

His heart swelled with love and admiration for her, seeing her struggle despite the pain and try to make sense of a world that had seemingly given up on logic and reason. And then he saw it change, right there in her eyes and in the soft curves of her mouth, the moment when her resolve faded and she remembered, he knew, just what those losses had felt like in reality, and not when considered in the cold calm of strategy.

His mum stood and took a few steps away, her head bowed. She'd witnessed Hermione's determination, and her sorrow, as well. "Yes, of course he is," she whispered finally. "But it's a far different thing to make those kinds of decisions than it is to face the consequences. Every time I think of the little Creevey boy, or of Neville, I get so angry and I think, there had to have been another way. A way to save them all. Why didn't we find it? And then of think of George and I know we've got to find a way yet to save as many as we can."

Beside him, Hermione rose and went to his mother. The two women embraced, speaking words of comfort to each other, too low for Ron to hear. After a moment, Mum pulled back and gave Hermione a grateful smile. She turned to Ron, then, her voice steady. "You asked why we didn't bring you all here right away. The answer is that it wasn't safe here, no safer than the Burrow, really, or Grimmauld Place, not when we first got here. There was something we had to do first..." She trailed off, looking, Ron thought, strangely wistful for a moment. "And then we had to test the spell. Until we knew it was safe, we couldn't bring you here."

"I understand, Mum," he said finally, feeling like a bit of a heel for having accused her, even indirectly, of having done anything that would have jeopardized his welfare. In fact it was right daft, when he thought about it that way.

"Bringing Ernie here was our only option, and it wasn't a very safe one for him. He spent a great many weeks shut up in one wing of the castle, with very little company. Everyone else was focused on the task at hand. Even Percy and Penny, and they weren't supposed to be here, either, of course," his mother added.

"Why not?" Ron asked, surprised. He hadn't, truth be told, reacted poorly to the idea of his brother being here safe and all, not the way he had MacMillan. Percy was family, no matter what. MacMillan wasn't. Ron mentally winced; he really had been a git, getting all upset about that. What were they supposed to do? Leave Ernie out there on his own because he wasn't a Weasley? That was horrible.

Hermione interrupted gently. "Professor Dumbledore didn't make provisions for Percy in his plan, did he?"

His mother looked sad. "No. We were... well, we were still estranged at the time." She smiled, though, then, brightening. "But it's all in the past now. And it's also getting very late. Let's get on to your rooms, shall we?"

Ron took a deep breath and nodded, an ache still in his heart and his mind still spinning. He couldn't seem to stop getting angry first, getting answers later; if he'd just stop flying off the handle it would be a lot easier for everyone, he knew. But he couldn't seem to help it.

They reached the end of the hall and went up a curved flight of stairs. The next floor was much more inviting than those they'd seen thus far. There were torches everywhere casting a soft glow over the tapestries and paintings, the thicker carpets and the many wooden doors. The hallway was long; Ron counted ten or so doors leading off at the sides. At the very end stood a large stone statue of a phoenix, its wings folded down and its head tucked low, as if in slumber.

"Your father's and my room is through there," his mother said. "The password is tellyphone." She rolled her eyes, but then caught her son's concerned look at such an obvious choice. "It's just for privacy, dear, not for safety. There's a meeting room as well, and -- well, your father will explain more about that tomorrow. Now, here's Hermione's room."

She opened one of the thick wooden doors on the right and led the way. Hermione followed tentatively and Ron was close behind, his hand resting on the small of her back.

The room was high-ceilinged and large, larger than their room at the safehouse had been. A tall curtained bed, nightstand and bureau were on a raised area on one side of the room; on the other was a fireplace, a comfortable-looking chair and a small sofa.

"Do you like it, Hermione?" his mother asked with a gentle smile.

"It's wonderful," she replied, and something about the tone of her voice caused Ron to take her arm and turn her about so that he could see her face. She looked close to tears again.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing's wrong. It's just, it's so nice, and oh, and bookshelves!" she exclaimed, moving around the room.

There was an empty bookcase to the left of the door; Ron hadn't noticed it at first glance. He grinned. "You're getting weepy over empty bookshelves? That's barmy."

"I am not getting weepy," Hermione countered, though she belied her words with a sniff.

"I think you are," he teased.

"That's enough out of you, Ronald," his mum interjected. "Stop picking on Hermione; she's tired, poor thing, and needs to get some rest. Your bags are right over there by the bed, dear," she said to Hermione in a much gentler tone. "And the loo is through that door back there. Is there anything else you need?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, thank you." She paused uncertainly and then took two quick steps forward and gave his mother another fierce embrace. "I'm so glad you're here," Hermione said in a small voice that tugged at Ron's heart. The two women separated, and this time Hermione didn't try to hide her tears. "I'm so glad to see all of you again."

"I know, dear. I know. Ron, say goodnight to Hermione and then let's get you settled in as well." She hesitated, and then gave them a knowing smile. "I'll just be out in the hallway."

Ron watched his mother leave and turned worried eyes to Hermione. "What are we going to do?" he asked. "I can't leave you here like this, not when you're feeling upset. And I don't want to be away from you. What--"

"I told you not to worry about it," she said, sliding her arms around his waist. "Just go with your mother now and I'll be here when you get back."

"I don't understand. Am I just supposed to sneak down that hallway every night and hope no one sees me going into your room? Or coming out of it in the morning, for that matter? We're bound to get caught."

Hermione sighed and stood on her toes to kiss him lightly. Her smile, when they parted, was amused. "Are you sure you're a wizard, Ronald?"

"Huh?"

"Apparate, you silly man. Go to your room, say goodnight to your mum, wait a few moments and Apparate here. In the morning, Apparate back. Simple."

Oh. "What if someone comes--"

She gave him a not-so-gentle nudge. "We'll work it out later. Now go!"

Chagrined, Ron pulled Hermione's door closed behind him and found his mum waiting for him. She led the way down to the other side of the hall.

"That's Percy and Penny's room, right there," she was saying. "And Bill's going to go in this one, and Charlie uses this one here. We saved the room next to Hermione for Ginny, and there's one for Fred... and George... and Harry. For when they're here, too," she added briskly.

"Where's everyone else?" Ron asked, trying not to think too much about those empty rooms.

"Well, the Diggorys are up on the next floor and, oh, it's a big castle, Ron, you'll learn the lay of the land eventually. Here we are," she said with a flourish, opening a door exactly like Hermione's. The room was much the same as well. "It's a bigger room than your old one at the Burrow, isn't it?" his mother said brightly.

He nodded, but he'd caught the flicker of sadness in her eyes. He tried but he couldn't hide his own pain and anger over the loss of their home. "Mum--"

"It's late, Ron," she said, turning away slightly. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

"Sure," he mumbled awkwardly, uncertain how to respond to a mother who wasn't shouting from the rooftops or squeezing the life out of him... a mother who was obviously suffering and didn't want to share her own grief with him. He felt, suddenly, like a useless little boy, the way he too often had, growing up -- not old enough to help out with anything, the way Bill and Charlie did, but too old to be able to pretend nothing was wrong, to accept his mother's comfort without wanting to offer something in return.

After his mum had left, he wandered around the room aimlessly. There was a window on the far opposite wall; he peered out into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust so that he could make out what he was looking at. There seemed to be other, smaller buildings in the distance, some with lights coming from the windows. He could hear the ocean but couldn't see past the hills stretching out towards the horizon.

He shivered, though the room was warm, and shook himself a bit awake. He didn't want to be in this room, alone. Hermione, he thought, and pictured her room in his mind's eye...

"Is that you?" he heard her voice say even before he'd opened his eyes.

"Yes," he said simply.

"I'll be out in a second."

Ron sat down wearily on the edge of the bed and started taking off his shoes and socks. He should have changed into pajamas before Apparating over, but he hadn't been thinking of anything but getting to where Hermione was, away from that big empty room that he didn't want... a room that only reminded him that everything he'd ever known before really and truly was gone forever. This was his life now, here on this island, in this castle. And he was grateful for it, he was, but he didn't think he could do it without Hermione beside him. As long as he was where she was, it would be okay.

He stripped down to his boxer shorts, leaving a pile of clothes on the floor. He could still hear water running, from the loo; Ron sighed and folded the clothes more neatly, at least. No sense making her angry from the get-go. If there was one drawback to living with Hermione, he thought with a hint of humor, it was the way her compulsive neatness was rubbing off on him... not because he cared, but because she did, and somewhere along the line what mattered to Hermione had started to matter to him, even when nothing else did.

"Are you okay?" he heard her say softly.

He looked up and found Hermione standing in front of him, her brown eyes soft with worry and fatigue. She's really exhausted, Ron thought. I should be taking better care of her and not wallowing in my own head.

"Sure," he said with a smile. "Just hoping Mum doesn't come knocking on either of our doors during the night."

"Does she do that often?" Hermione asked.

Ron frowned. "Well, no."

Hermione shrugged pragmatically. "Then let's not worry about it. Ron, I don't want to upset your mother, so I'm willing to pretend we have separate rooms for her sake. If there's ever actually an awkward situation like you're imagining, we'll make something up. Or I will, anyhow, you're a terrible liar."

"I am not!"

She laughed. "Where your mother is concerned, you really are. So, that's all there is to it. Really, most of them know already, after all. Bill and Charlie aren't going to say anything, and neither will anyone else, if they happen to find out. Not that it's any of their business."

"What about Percy?" Ron asked dubiously. He liked his brother's new attitude a lot, but he doubted anyone's ability to stop a lifetime of tattling overnight. "He'll blab for sure."

"No, I think him least of all," Hermione said vaguely. "But I'll say something about it to him, or Penny, tomorrow, if you like."

"I guess," Ron acquiesced. She had a point, and in the grand scheme of things it hardly seemed important enough to worry about. He knew where he belonged, and as for Mum... he had the feeling she had bigger issues on her plate right now, in any case.

Hermione stepped closer, standing in between his knees. He looked up at her and realized he'd been so caught up in his thoughts, still, that he hadn't really noticed how she looked, other than tired. Even worn-out and sleepy, though, the longer he looked, the more she took his breath away.

She was so small, standing there, his long gangly legs on either side of her, her tiny bare feet poised between his. She was wearing long cotton pajama pants, the cuffs rolled up at her ankles and the waist dipping slightly so that he could see a small patch of skin there, at her left hip. Her arms were bare and she was wearing a green, lace-edged camisole top he'd never seen before. Her hair was piled up on top of her head and the long lines of her neck sloped perfectly, gracefully, to her shoulders, her arms, her breasts.

"You look beautiful," he said.

She smiled. He reached up and took the clip from her hair, setting free the long waving strands and weaving his hands into their silky mass. She stepped even closer and he buried his face in her neck, dropping one hand to her back and drawing slow, lazy circles there.

His lips found the sensitive pulse point on her neck and he nuzzled there, feeling her hands trail fire up and down his arms, his back... he worked forward in a path over her jaw and to her mouth, her lips parting beneath his, welcoming him in. And even though they'd kissed hundreds of times before, his heart still started to thud in his chest and he could feel the blood pounding in his veins. He hardly noticed that they were falling, tumbling back onto the bed, Hermione above him, her hair a soft curtain shutting out the rest of the world until there was nothing, nothing but the two of them and the feel of her mouth on his.

He gathered her in his arms and shifted them both until she was lying below him, her arms wound tightly around him and her legs coming up to cradle his body to hers. He stared into her eyes, wishing he had the words to tell her what she meant to him -- he knew, somehow, that he had never quite managed to say it, not really, not enough. He looked at her and thought back to the little girl he'd met on a train all those years ago; to the friend who had been by his side for so many adventures, so many good times and too many dangerous ones; to the girl with the sad eyes who would only turn away whenever they had met, last year, the girl he'd hurt much more than he'd ever intended to; to the woman he'd turned to in the night, alone in the safehouse, when there was no one else who could make him feel good about anything in the world. She was still all of those things to him: the young, brilliantly bossy girl, the friend, the one person he never wanted to hurt again and the woman he wanted to be with for the rest of his life. And he hoped that some day he'd be able to tell her all of that. He hoped that she knew, now, even without the words.

He lowered his head to her shoulder, pushing aside the thin strap of her top and nudging it down her arm. Her skin was soft and warm from the shower she'd just taken; he could smell the light floral soap she'd used and he nipped at her skin, all the while moving lower until he was nuzzling the top of her breast, pushing the lace aside with urgent fingers.

"Ron," she murmured, and he smiled, but she stilled him with her hands and he stopped, his eyes sliding open, wondering what was wrong.

He saw it then, peeking out from beneath her camisole, revealed now that he'd pushed the delicate fabric aside. In the valley between her breasts, there, to the left, a red mark -- not one left by his lips but a dark, jagged line, a line that he knew was not there the last time they'd been together like this, just two nights ago, at the safehouse.

"Ron."

"Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" he said finally.

"I didn't know it was there until Madame Pomfrey examined me," she said quietly. "When I changed at the safehouse I wasn't really -- I mean, I barely remember changing. I didn't see it."

Ron closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself to calm. When he opened his eyes again he saw Hermione watching him, her expression unreadable. He cupped her face in his hand and then moved himself carefully to the side, pulling her along with him until her head rested on his chest and his arms were wrapped tightly around her.

"Are you okay?" he asked tentatively. "Is that why she examined you for so long, did she find something..."

She pressed her lips to his chest. "I'm okay. I promise. It's just a scar."

"But look at Harry's scar, and what it's done to him--"

"Harry's scar doesn't do anything to him; Voldemort does, through it. Ron, Draco Malfoy wasn't Voldemort. And he's gone," she said simply. "He can't hurt me or anyone else again. It's just a scar."

Ron knew she was right, but he still planned on asking Bill about it as soon as he got the chance, just to be sure.

"Does it bother you much?" Hermione asked. "I know it's rather... well, ugly to look at."

"Don't be daft," Ron said affectionately. "You're bloody gorgeous, and any part of you I get to look at is gorgeous. You drive me crazy and you know it, you tease."

Hermione twisted around and propped herself up on his chest. "I know no such thing. You're making me sound like some kind of temptress, Ronald Weasley, and that's ridiculous."

"Not to me," he said, grinning.

Hermione leaned up and kissed him lightly. "You're crazy, but you're mine."

"That I am," he agreed. He looked at her and sighed. "It makes me think of how close I came to losing you, that's all," he admitted. "What he almost did to you."

"I know," she said. "I thought that the first time I saw it, too. It scared me a little. And then... then I thought about Neville, and what he did for me, and now when I look at that scar, I think about the noblest friend we've ever had. It makes me sad, it always will, but it makes me feel blessed, as well. And it reminds me of just what this war is about."

Ron could only look at her for a long moment, wondering what he'd ever done to deserve someone so brave and so strong.

He sat up, gently tugging Hermione along with him. With careful, reverent hands, he moved her camisole aside once more and slowly lowered his lips to her scar. "You're what it's about," he said, raising his head to kiss the tears away from her cheeks. "You, and Harry, and our friends and family. All the people I love."

"All the things worth fighting for," Hermione whispered, and he nodded.

"You most of all," he whispered back. "Always."