Lost and Found

Chapter XI

A Day Apart

As she watched her husband's retreating back, Hermione stood motionless in the corridor with an expression of surprise on her face and with an oddly blank mind. Any second now he would come back and tell her it was all a mistake.

He reached the stairs and started down, and she waited. When he got to the bottom, she was sure he would look up. He didn't. Then he was striding across the foyer and when he got to the door, she expected him to at least glance in her direction. Instead, the door opened and he stalked through, slamming it behind him.

And, just like that, he was gone.

She felt her jaw drop and she thought, This can't be happening. Ron did not just walk out of here. He did not just leave me.

It felt like an eternity before she was able to command her body to move. She turned to head into her sitting room and saw Harry standing behind her. She had forgotten he was there. She did not know why she had forgotten; this was his fault. He had provoked Ron. In fact, the more Hermione thought about it, the more she felt that Ron would be back as soon as his anger at Harry had subsided. Ron would realize leaving her was not the answer to the issues Harry was having.

You're being daft, Hermione, said a voice in her head. Harry may be part of the problem, but don't you think it might have something to do with you, too?

"Shut up," she said aloud.

Harry blinked. "I didn't say anything."

"I wasn't talking to you," she snapped and Harry looked around, apparently wondering just who Hermione was talking to.

"Hermione," Harry started, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. I meant to hit Ron."

"Oh," said Hermione sarcastically, "and that makes it all so much better."

"Look, Hermione--"

Glaring at him, Hermione snarled, "Sod off, Potter!" She then stomped into her and Ron's suite and slammed the door.

~*~

Ron walked away from number twelve Grimmauld Place in a fury. Hermione had chosen Harry. It was the only thought he was capable of processing and he paid absolutely no attention to where his feet were taking him.

Hermione had chosen Harry.

He should have known it would come down to this at some point. It always did. Harry always got everything while he, Ron, always came in last. And now Harry had taken his wife. It may have been her choice, but that was exactly the problem.

Well, he thought, I hope they're happy. His feet slowed a bit as his brain processed that thought. No, he really did not hope they would be happy. It was not that he was wishing unhappiness on anyone, despite how miserable he was feeling at the moment. But, rather, it was that he could not find it in himself to think of her getting along without him. Or of Hermione being happy with someone other than him.

But you have to, he told himself. You just walked out and left Hermione with Harry; and she didn't come after you. Clearly, she's made her choice and it doesn't include stupid, second-rate, Ron.

He had to admit, he had expected her to come after him, or to at least call out to him. He was surprised that she had not. But why would she? he asked himself. You gave her an ultimatum. You know how she is. Make her choose, and she'll always go the other way just to be contrary.

But I really thought we had something. I thought we had something special. I thought we had that forever kind of love, he thought sadly. But apparently it just wasn't strong enough.

Ron felt like crying. He had not cried since the end of the war and the night they had gotten Bill and Ginny's diagnoses and he had told his family about having killed Percy. He had hoped never to feel that devastated again but this, he felt, was a thousand times worse. He may not have killed anyone, though the impulse to cause permanent damage to Harry had been difficult to restrain during the past few months, but he still felt as though someone had died.

The more angry Ron felt, the faster he walked and he continued thus for quite some time. A few times he walked into people who cursed at him when he just kept going. He barely noticed having bumped into anything.

It was not until darkness began to fall and Ron's feet became achy that he slowed his steps and, finally, stopped to look around him. He had no idea where he was. Muggle London was still a mystery to him and here he found himself in the heart of it. Gazing at the various buildings, he saw a pub across the street but he doubted he had any Muggle money on him. In fact, it was just beginning to dawn on him that he had left the house with absolutely nothing but his paint-spotted wand that he still clutched in his right hand.

Stuffing the wand in his back pocket, Ron checked the rest of the pockets in his jeans just in case he had some kind of money on him, although he had no idea where he would be able to change Wizard gold into Muggle money. His hand closed on something and he pulled it out of his pocket. In disbelief, he looked at the pieces of paper and wondered how in the name of Merlin they had gotten into his pocket. He wondered how much he had, but decided it was not wise to stand out on the street trying to work through it.

With another look at the pub across the street, Ron decided he would see about getting a drink. He really needed to sit down and decide what his next move would be.

Ron stood briefly just inside the pub and tried to see through the smoke. He wondered if someone had set off some Dungbombs, although the smell was not quite right. A woman with dark hair piled high on her head came up to him.

"'Ello, luv," she said with a smile that showed large crooked teeth; the front two were pink as they had been smeared with the lipstick she was wearing.

"Er, hello," answered Ron, awkwardly.

"Would you like a table or would you care to sit at the bar?" asked the woman.

Ron thought about it for a minute. "Er, could you tell me--" He reached into his pocket and withdrew the money he had found earlier. "Do I have enough money for a drink?"

The woman's heavily made up eyes widened and she looked at Ron's money. After a moment she seemed to sense that he was serious and gently took the paper from him to count it. When she finished counting, she looked up at him as she handed the money back and said, "You have enough for at least two drinks, luv. Why don't you take a seat at the bar and tell Joe what you want." She pointed to an empty seat at the bar and Ron headed over.

Sitting down, Ron wondered just what Muggles drank. He looked at the other patrons around him and saw several with large, funny shaped glasses of something dark and foamy. He thought that looked rather promising.

"What'll it be, mate?"

Ron looked up to see a burly man on the other side of the bar. He assumed this was Joe. "Uh, I'll have one of those," he said, pointing to one of the dark drinks on the bar in front of another patron.

"Pint of Guinness it is," said Joe, walking away.

The barman returned a moment later and set a glass down. Ron held out a note to him and hoped it was enough. Apparently it was, as Joe left again and came back with Ron's change. He stood there staring at Ron for a moment. Ron stared back. Clearly, he was missing some part of the Muggle drinking ritual.

The dark haired woman sidled up next to Ron. Taking a note out of his hand, she gave it to Joe who took it and left. "You've got to tip the barman, luv," she told Ron. She gave Ron an appraising look and then leaned on the bar. "What's your name, luv?"

"Ron."

Holding a hand out to him she said, "I'm Carla. Nice to meet you."

Ron knew this Muggle tradition and held out his own hand.

"So," Carla continued, "what's your story?"

"Er, my story?"

"Yeah, your story. What brings a handsome, young bloke into an out-of-the-way pub that serves mostly old regulars? And you're clearly not a foreigner, so why don't you seem to know money or how to tip?"

Ron's hand curled around his glass. He had not even had a chance to take a sip of the drink. How should he answer this strange woman with the pink teeth? Was it really even any of her business? And why did she care, anyway? Ron was debating these issues when a voice rang out.

"Oy, Carla!" Ron turned and saw the barman gesturing toward Carla.

"What?" she yelled.

"Get back to the door. We got people over there need to know where to go."

Looking at the door, she made a face. "It's only the old Wallaces," she muttered to Ron. "They always sit at the same bloody table every Saturday night. They don't need me to tell them where to go." Patting Ron's arm, Carla said, "I'll be back, luv."

Ron took a sip of his drink and then licked some foam off his upper lip. He thought it might be what mead tasted like but he could not be sure. The last time Ron had drunk mead, he had been poisoned and he had stayed away from it ever since. This, though, he thought, taking another sip, isn't too bad.

Sitting quietly on his stool, Ron had time to think about what had happened that afternoon. He thought about everything that had led up to his leaving. The more he thought, the more depressed he became, until his head was drooping practically to the point of resting on the smooth surface of the bar.

"Drink up, lad," said an older man, clapping Ron on the back and sitting on the empty stool next to him. "Can't be all that bad."

Nodding, Ron said, "Yeah. It can."

The man ordered a drink and looked at Ron. "What happened, mate. Girlfriend dump you?"

Ron looked up. The man next to him had short, graying hair and a slight growth of beard. He had crow's feet and weathered skin and eyes that gave Ron the impression the man had seen a lot of sorrow. He seemed like someone who would understand. Taking a gulp of his ale, Ron said sadly, "No. I left my wife."

"Wife? You even old enough to be married?" asked the man as Joe set a pint in front of him.

"Yeah. We got married in June but we've been together forever before that. I feel like I've known her my whole life." Ron was afraid he was going to start crying.

"What happened, mate?"

"She chose Harry." Ron took another swig.

"Harry? Friend of yours?"

Blinking, Ron looked at the man. Then he remembered this was a Muggle pub and no one here had ever heard of the Boy-Who-Lived. Even if Ron mentioned his full name, no one would nod knowingly or call Harry the Chosen One. No one would ask Ron what it was like to be Harry Potter's best friend.

"He was," said Ron. "Then he saved the world and hid away. Hermione thought she could save him."

"Save him from what?" Carla asked from Ron's other side. Apparently, old Mr. and Mrs. Wallace had been seated satisfactorily.

"Himself, I think. She was convinced of it. 'We can do him some good,' she kept saying." Ron's glass was now empty and he looked at it sadly.

"Joe!" The man next to Ron snapped his fingers at the barman. "Bring this lad another drink. He just split with his wife and needs some comfort."

A fresh pint appeared before Ron and he thanked the man.

"Think nothing of it. I'm Mick, by the way." They repeated the hand-shaking gesture.

Carla and Mick continued to ask Ron questions about his split with Hermione and others along the bar started to listen in. When Ron's second glass was empty a third appeared and Ron heard, "On the house, mate."

Soon, everyone down the bar had ordered a drink for Ron and he was unsure how many pints he'd actually had. All he knew was that, somehow, he was telling how Hermione had kissed him before his first Quidditch match.

"First what?" asked Carla.

"It was a sport we played at school," Ron tried to think how to explain it, but his muddled brain could not quite come up with the words─or the fact that these were Muggles and he should not even have mentioned Quidditch to them─so he gave up and left it at that.

"There was a song," he started. He tried to remember the words and soon was teaching the other patrons "Weasley is Our King." As another pint came his way, he started singing it. Loudly. Soon, the entire pub was singing along.

After several very repetitive choruses, Ron stood and waved his hands in the air, conducting. As the song finished, he displayed a bit too much exuberance and found himself falling off his stool. Laughing hysterically, he found several hands thrust at him as people tried to help him up. Grabbing one at random, Ron felt himself being hauled to his feet where he swayed and almost lost his balance again.

"Whoa, there, mate," said Mick, laughing. "Maybe you've had enough."

Carla was brushing Ron off and asked, "Should we call you a taxi, luv?"

"What?"

"A taxi. To take you home."

"Don't have a home anymore," said Ron shaking his head sadly.

"You got a place to stay?"

"Nope."

The pub patrons, who, just a moment ago, were so entertained by Ron, looked at each other. As sorry as they felt for the redheaded lad, none of them were willing to take him home with them. Most of the men who had been providing Ron with drink had wives who were already likely to be angry their husbands had spent the evening down at the pub. They would not react well to the appearance of another inebriated sod arriving at their homes.

It was Carla who finally spoke up. "All right, then Ron. You'll just have to come home with me." She looked at Joe. "I'm off now anyway," she said.

Slipping behind the bar to grab her handbag, Carla called out, "Someone get me a taxi."

A few minutes later, Ron found himself sitting in the back of a car with Carla. He suddenly felt very tired and alone. Looking at Carla through bleary eyes, Ron found himself reaching for her knee. She looked at him and smiled and did not remove his hand.

~*~

Hermione sat on the sofa in the sitting room. She had her arms and legs crossed and she glared angrily at the fire as though it had done her a grievous wrong. She had huffed out loud several times and was shaking her dangling right foot nervously, though the effect was really wasted, as there was no one there to see it.

Any minute now, she told herself. Any minute now he's going to Floo and tell you what a terrible mistake he's made. She repeated this thought over and over, yet the fire simply continued to crackle merrily and there were no signs anyone was trying to contact her.

She switched legs and continued to glower at the fireplace. Ron had been gone for hours. It was almost dark outside now and the little voice in her subconscious that seemed to be trying to tell her things she did not want to hear, appeared to think Ron was not going to return. She told the voice to piss off and it was quiet again.

There was a knock at the door and Hermione snapped, "Come in."

The door opened and Winky walked in, preceded, as usual, by a tray bearing Hermione's dinner. When she saw there was only one plate, she felt her eyes tear up.

As Winky made her way to the table under the window, she said, "Winky is not thinking Mistress Weasley should be speaking that way."

Hermione looked at the house-elf and saw the frown that was being thrown her way. Before this afternoon, Hermione would have immediately felt awful for speaking to Winky in that tone but, at the moment, she found herself not really caring.

"Sorry," she managed, insincerely.

Winky gave her a measured look as she placed the tray on the table. She started taking things off and setting a place for Hermione. "Master Harry Potter says Master Weasley will be dining out this evening and Mistress is alone," she said.

Hermione frowned. It almost sounded as though Harry knew something she did not. Then she decided that Harry would have known if Ron had returned. As her friend was so fond of saying, this was his house. But the phrase that really stuck with her was Mistress is alone. She again blinked back tears.

"That's right, Winky. Ron is out tonight," said Hermione, remaining in her seat on the sofa. She watched as Winky finished at the table and lifted the tray off. Winky stood looking at Hermione for a moment as though awaiting further instructions. Finally, Hermione said, "Thank you, Winky."

The house-elf made her way to the door. She opened the it to leave and gave Hermione one more strange glance. At that point, Hermione saw Harry standing in the hallway beyond Winky and looking into the sitting room with curiosity written all over his face. His expression brightened as he met her eyes.

~*~

Hermione paced the length of the room. When she had begun, it had been a mad, unorganized pacing but, as was so often the case with her, the longer she had done it, the more refined it became. She took seven steps from the door and crossed in front of the fireplace. At the end of the seventh step she pivoted smartly on her heel and took the same seven steps back to the door where she began the process all over again.

The remains of Hermione's uneaten dinner had been cleared away some time earlier and she had been stewing ever since. The little voice in her head was becoming stronger and she was having a more difficult time ordering it to go away.

He has to come back, she thought acidly, all his things are here. He doesn't even have a change of clothes.

The little voice seemed to disagree. If he went to the Burrow he could have borrowed clothes from Bill, it reminded her.

And he would have told them what happened, Hermione thought, frowning. What would he have said? Would he have made all of this out to be her fault? How would he have slanted or twisted what had happened?

The voice reprimanded her. You know he isn't like that, it said. You know he would never paint you in a bad light. He probably told them he made a mess of it and took all the blame on himself.

Hermione's first thought was that Ron had made a mess of things. He never should have left.

Hermione, warned the voice, but she ignored it and pivoted.

Miserable prat, she thought. Leaving me like this. What did he think he was doing? He knew the point to living here was to help Harry. How can he not have seen the progress we've made? Hermione huffed and glared again at the fireplace. As she did so, the moving photographs on the mantle caught her eye. She allowed herself a quick glance over them as she walked by, but then her footsteps hesitated.

There, in the middle of the mantle next to the polished rosewood box that contained the marriage wand, was a photo of them on their wedding day. Ron was standing behind her and had his hands on her waist while she looked lovingly back over her shoulder at him. They both had big smiles on their faces as Ron leaned in and kissed her. She remembered that moment so well. George had been giving his toast and they had been standing quietly, ostensibly listening to him but really not paying attention at all. They had been completely unaware of Colin Creevey standing right in front of them with his camera. The flash went off as they were kissing and they had jumped, both of them giving Colin a somewhat surprised and annoyed look. But Colin had worked his camera magic, and the photo only showed them kissing and then pulling apart to look into each other's eyes.

As she stood staring at the photo, she heard the clock in the foyer begin chiming and tears started forming in her eyes. She vaguely counted the chimes, the tears becoming more difficult to keep in check with each gong. They finally spilled over with the twelfth and final chime.

With the midnight hour, everything suddenly became intensely real in a way it had not been before and Hermione felt overwhelmed. Ron was really gone. He had left her. They were always supposed to be together and had vowed that, no matter what happened, they always would be.

Not thinking about her actions, Hermione grabbed the wedding photo off the mantle and, with a snarl, hurled it against the door where it smashed resoundingly against the wood. Pieces of crystal flew and the photo itself fluttered to the floor. Hermione looked at it for a moment before sinking to her knees where she buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

~*~

There was a flash of green light and Ron watched stupidly as Neville fell to the ground. His ears were filled with the sound of maniacal laughter as a Death Eater in front of him pointed a wand at his sister. "No," Ron wanted to shout as he tried frantically to fight the curse that had left him powerless on the ground.

Green light flashed again and Ron feared the worst. "Ginny," he whispered. But, looking up, he saw a Death Eater lying on the ground and his baby sister was pointing her wand at another Death Eater. This one took his hood off and Ron gasped. Percy!

Ron fought harder and found himself able to move a bit. He continued to desperately fight the Impediment curse that had hit him a few minutes earlier. He knew Percy could not be trusted; had always known it. He watched as Ginny lowered her wand. As Percy raised his, Ron, with everything bit of strength he could muster, struggled to his feet and held out his wand. Now it was a matter of who could say it faster. Percy started first and Ron knew he had to hurry.

As fast as he could say the words clearly, he shouted, "Avada Kedavra!" Green lighted flared out of his wand and Percy fell, lifeless, to the ground.

"No!" Ron jerked himself awake.

The nightmare was back. He had not had one, had not relived it, since getting married and he wondered why it was back now.

He managed to open one eye that felt as though it had been glued shut. He quickly closed it again as he was overwhelmed by a spinning sensation. Deciding to risk another nightmare, he reached for the body next to him and, just after noting that Hermione felt a bit different, he fell back to sleep.

~*~

Several hours later Ron woke again and this time he was able to open his eyes without feeling like he was going to throw up, at least not immediately. He blinked as the thought occurred to him that something was not quite right. Instead of the horntail honey he had become accustomed to, the walls around him were a strange color that reminded him of moldy celery.

He frowned and sat up, taking in several things at once. He was alone and undressed in a bed that was decidedly uncomfortable. His clothes were tossed over a chair in the corner and he could see his wand poking out of a back pocket of his jeans. Looking next to him on the bed, Ron could see the imprint that told him someone else had been there not too long ago. Vaguely, he remembered having held someone during the night, but it could not have been his wife.

Suddenly the events of the day before came rushing back to him: Hermione, Harry, drinking in a pub, a woman with pink teeth who had sat in a car with him. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the chorus to Weasley is Our King.

He looked at his undressed state and had a very bad feeling as he thought about the dark-haired woman, Cora or something. He suspected that he might have done something extremely stupid.

Just then she walked into the room and when she saw him staring at her she said, "Ah, finally awake then, luv?"

He looked at her smiling pleasantly at him and managed, "Er, yeah." He thought she looked a lot different than she had the night before. Her long straight hair hung limply down her back and the thick make-up she had been wearing was, save for some black smeared under her eyes, almost gone. She was also wearing a rather sleek nightgown that clung to her and left very little to the imagination.

"How do you feel?" she asked sitting on the bed. It was all Ron could do not to be rude and move away from her.

"Been better, I reckon," he answered, blinking to keep her in focus.

She laughed softly and Ron noticed that her teeth were no longer pink. "I would imagine. You drank quite a bit last night."

She reached a hand up to his head, and Ron tried not to flinch as she ran it through his messy ginger hair. "You are adorable when you first wake up, you know," she said wistfully.

Ron did not like how close she was. His mind was capable of only two thoughts: Please tell me I didn't, please tell me I didn't, and, This woman is nothing like my Hermione.

"Well," she finally said and Ron wished he could remember her name. "You need to get up. I've a tonic you can drink for your hangover but then, I'm afraid, you'll need to be getting on. My boyfriend went away for the weekend but he'll be back shortly. As he can be a bit possessive, it wouldn't be wise for you to be here when he arrives." She stood and added, "I'll leave you to dress."

As soon as the door shut behind her, Ron, ignoring the pounding in his head, jumped out of the bed and grabbed his clothes. Dressing as quickly as possible, he checked for his wand and then headed to the door.

He walked out of the bedroom with the ugly walls and looked around. The entire place was painted in colors that reminded Ron of things from Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class. The lounge appeared to have been painted Blast-Ended Skrewt and the kitchen, where he could hear the woman moving around, reminded him of the Giant Squid when he walked into it.

"'Ere you go, luv," she said as she handed him a glass. He took a sip and grimaced. "Ah, now, don't let the taste be getting to you. Finish it up quickly and I guarantee you'll be feeling like new in no time."

When the glass was empty he handed it back to her, said "Thank you," and watched while she put it in the sink. He knew he had to leave but there was something he really wanted to know before he did. "Uh, Carol?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows and looked at him with a smirk and he wondered what he had said. Finally, she spoke for him. "You want to know if anything happened last night, don't you?" When he nodded she continued. "Well, not that I would've minded, but no. You passed out the minute you fell on the bed. Although," she added, "you did put your arms around me in the middle of the night, but as you'd just awakened screaming, I thought I'd let it be." Cocking her head at him she said, "Actually, it felt right nice. My Guy, he never holds me."

Ron nodded stupidly. He felt enormously relieved. "Well," he said, "thank you. For everything."

"You're welcome, luv. Now," she ushered him to the door, "you best be on your way or Guy, well, there's no telling what he'll do if he finds you here."

As Ron opened the door, she called to him again. He turned around and looked at her. "No matter what happens," she said quietly, "Your wife is, at the very least, lucky to have had someone who loved her so much."

~*~

Hermione frowned and opened her eyes. Looking around blearily, she realized she had fallen asleep on the sofa in the sitting room and was covered with the quilt Mr. Weasley had given to her for her birthday. She remembered sitting on the floor and crying until it felt as though there were no tears left. Hiccoughing, she had managed to get herself over to the sofa where she'd curled up in a corner with a cushion. She must have then fallen asleep.

Sitting up and rubbing her eyes, she wondered about the quilt. She most certainly did not remember retrieving it from the bedroom where it was kept, folded neatly, across the end of the bed. Gazing around the room she saw that Winky had been by with her breakfast and Hermione decided it must have been the House-Elf who had gotten the quilt. Hermione looked toward the door and saw that Winky had also cleared away the broken pieces of frame from when Hermione had flung the wedding picture against the door. She looked around the room briefly and wondered where the photo itself had gone, as she did not see it anywhere.

She felt stiff and sore from having slept on the sofa all night and thought taking a shower might help. But, a few minutes later, Hermione found herself still sitting on the sofa, holding the cushion. There was a vague thought that maybe she would eat her breakfast first, but she remained where she was as food was not in the least bit tempting to her.

Instead, she thought about Ron and wondered where he had gone. Her first thought was the Burrow where everyone would have gathered for the weekly feast. Since she had not heard from the Weasleys wondering where they were, she guessed that was where he must be. In a way, it relieved her to think he had gone to family but, on the other hand, she wondered what he might have told them and what they must be thinking of her.

She remembered the first time she had worried what Ron might think of her. It was her first time aboard the Hogwarts Express when she stumbled on Ron and Harry while looking for Neville's toad. Hermione remembered suddenly feeling self-conscious as she looked from the sad boy with glasses to the vibrant boy with ginger hair and a smudge of dirt on his nose. In her confusion she had done the only thing she could think to do. She had commandeered her bossy voice and told them to change into robes. She had been grateful when Neville, still unable to find Trevor, had led her back to Ron and Harry's compartment. Looking for something to say directly to Ron, she had then told him about his nose. She had expected him to be grateful to her that he would not look like a dirty little troll when they got to school but, instead, he had glared at her. Up until that point, Hermione had never felt so sad and alone in her life.

She sniffed quietly as she stared into the fire. She still hoped Ron would suddenly appear there but she knew, deep down, that he would not. Ron was, if nothing else, stubborn and not likely to admit he had been wrong.

He's not the only one who's stubborn, whispered the voice and Hermione tried to tell it to be quiet but it continued. And is he really the one who's wrong?

Hermione bit her lip and shook her head, the aforementioned stubbornness not allowing her to think that maybe, just maybe, she had made a huge mistake.

~*~

Ron stood on the pavement outside Carla's flat and blinked uncomfortably in the sun. He still had some Muggle money left but, for the life of him, he did not know where to go. He briefly thought about the Burrow but felt he did not want to see his family. He could go to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes but George would be at the Burrow with the rest of the family and he would have no way to get in. He shivered in the November air and decided waiting in the cold for his brother to come home was not really an option he was in favor of.

Smacking his lips, Ron decided he really needed to brush his teeth. He felt he could also use a shower, and suddenly it came to him: He could go to the Cannons' training facility. He worked out there a lot and had a locker in which he tried to keep some basic clothes and toiletries. The more he thought about it, the more perfect it seemed. He would not have to see his family and could sulk alone. He could also kip on one of the couches in the family waiting area.

At least, he thought as he looked for a hidden place where he could Disapparate, I'll be on time for work tomorrow.

A big, beefy man walked by as he ducked into an alley, pictured the Cannons' training complex and turned on his heel. When the large building appeared before him, Ron quickly made his way inside. He could swear it was getting colder.

He headed for the locker room where he grabbed some things out of his locker and then made his way to the showers. With the hot water running over him, he began to feel human again for the first time since Harry's stunning spell had hit Hermione. Concentrating only on the task at hand, Ron finished his shower, dressed and brushed his teeth.

When he was clean and had put his things away, Ron went into the family waiting area where there was a small kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of butterbeer, he made his way to one of the overstuffed sofas and sank into it wearily. The last twenty-four hours had been among the worst he could recall and he felt absolutely drained of all energy.

Too tired to start a fire, Ron gazed into the empty fireplace across the room and took a drink of butterbeer. He tried to keep himself from thinking about Hermione and Harry but the more he tried not to, the more he found himself unable to think of anything else. He wondered what they were doing and if Hermione had made any more of what she termed progress. He hoped not because every time she did, she managed to get hurt. But then, he realized, if she gets hurt I can't be there to help her.

Isn't that, asked Ron's own little voice, why you left? Because you couldn't stand to watch her get hurt again?

Yes, he answered. That's exactly why I left. He took another gulp of butterbeer and wished he had some Ogden's Old instead. Unfortunately, anything stronger than butterbeer was not allowed on the Cannons' premises.

Convinced he had done the only thing possible under the circumstances, Ron finished the butterbeer, muttered, "Cheers," in a half-hearted and depressed manner, and threw the bottle into the empty fireplace.

~*~