Lost and Found

Chapter XIII

Impasse

Ron Apparated outside the back door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Without hesitation, he reached out, turned the tarnished brass knob, and flung the door open. Flecks of black paint flew off as the door smacked the wall inside in the kitchen.

Hardly noting his surroundings, Ron took three large strides into the room before stopping suddenly. In front of him, Harry was nervously pacing the length of the kitchen. At the sound of the door slamming, he looked up sharply. For a brief moment, the two men just stared at each other.

It was Harry who broke the silence. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "What took you so long? I sent Hedwig almost half an hour ago." Harry tapped his watch in emphasis.

Ron gaped. Where had he been? Who was Harry to be demanding Ron make an account of his whereabouts? And what had taken so long? Ron had come as soon as he had received Harry's note. Trying to put aside his anger, Ron asked, "Where's Hermione?"

"Most likely throwing up in the loo," answered Harry. "Though," he added, "I can't imagine there's anything left to throw up. She's been sick like this for two days now."

Ron's heart almost stopped. What was wrong with his wife? Hermione did not get sick very often and when she did, it was usually a cold that went away the minute she took some Pepper-Up Potion.

Gulping, he asked, "What's wrong with her?"

Harry reached over to the kitchen table and picked up a crumpled wad of paper. When he held it up, Ron blinked. The Daily Prophet. What in Merlin's name is going on here? Ron thought. Newspapers were listed in those bloody rules as a forbidden item. Hermione always had it delivered directly to the suite so Harry would not see it.

"Bad charm," Harry said, drawing Ron's attention to the headline.

Bad Charm Sickens Partygoers

Ron reached out and took the paper from Harry.

Employees in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures were sickened during a Christmas party held in the office at the Ministry of Magic.

A bad charm had been placed on sandwiches ordered from Flying Feasts, number seventy, Diagon Alley. Proprietress Wanda Crumbley was devastated to learn that her food had made the Ministry workers ill. "I take very good care with my food," Madame Crumbley claimed. "I only use the freshest of ingredients and the safest of charms."

Upon further investigation, it was discovered that an employee of Madame Crumbley, Filbert Denham, had a grudge against one of the Ministry workers, Everett Wishhart, and deliberately used a charm intended for use only on troll food on the sandwiches delivered to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Mr. Denham had recently lost his girlfriend to Mr. Wishhart and wished to get even. He is now in Ministry custody.

Mr. Wishhart and eight other employees have been admitted to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies for treatment. Several other employees are believed to also have been sickened but have not, as of this writing, sought treatment.

Ron finished reading and looked at Harry. "Is she this sick?" he asked. "Should she be in St. Mungo's?"

Harry's eyes flashed. "She can't even keep water down, Ron. But, you know Hermione; she won't admit she's that sick. She refuses to go and I can't take her. Winky's been trying to nurse her, but Hermione just keeps sending her away. I thought maybe you could talk some sense into her."

Ron snorted. "Why would I be any more able to talk sense into her?"

"Because you're her husband," Harry reminded him.

His expression hardening, Ron said, "But she's been living with you. Why don't you just take her?"

Harry looked exasperated as he flung out, "I can't take her."

"Why not?" demanded Ron.

"I can't leave this house!"

Ron took a moment to give Harry a good, hard look that said You could if you wanted to. You could if it was important enough.

Throwing the paper on the table, Ron ran across the room and up the stairs to Hermione.

~*~

Hermione leaned back against the yellow tile wall in the bathroom. She was sitting on the floor in front of the toilet and felt as if she had always been there. The cold of the tile beneath and behind her seemed to have seeped into her bones and she did not know if she would ever be warm again. Of course, she did not think her stomach would ever let her get up off the floor, so it seemed rather a moot point.

The first day she was sick, she had run in from the sitting room, and when she felt as though she was done throwing up, she had gone back to the sofa and wrapped herself in Ron's blanket. However, she had only just settled back in, when she had to make another run for it. After three more times and almost not making the last one, she had simply remained on the floor in the bathroom. At some point she had heard the door open as Winky brought her breakfast, the smell of which had Hermione lurching forward to throw up once more.

Winky had quickly left and Hermione was still heaving, when she felt someone kneel down beside her. Harry had put one hand on her back as she continued to throw up and when she was done, he had asked how long she had been sick.

"Since about midnight, I think," she had answered.

"Maybe you should see a Healer," he had suggested, putting a hand on her forehead. "You're running quite the fever as well."

Hermione had shaken her head firmly. The action merely served to make her dizzy and upset her stomach again and she awkwardly reached out to embrace the toilet. Finally able to take some deep breaths, Hermione had told Harry, "No, I'll be fine."

"Do you want me to stay with you?"

"No," Hermione had said, feeling her gorge start to rise once more. "No. Please go."

Harry had acquiesced to her wishes, but he and Winky had both returned several times. Each time, they found Hermione in the same place and unwilling to move. Winky had pressed cold towels to her head which simply made it ache that much more and, at first, they managed to get her to drink some water, but each time, she threw it back up as quickly as it went down. Finally, Hermione told them to leave her alone and that she would be fine. She suspected that was a lie, but she could not think of any other way for them to just leave her be.

Now, though, the rational part of her brain (that still worked during the odd moment when she was not throwing up or fighting back nausea or trying to blink back the spearing pain in her head) told her that maybe she would not be fine. Maybe she should try to get some medical help. Each time she thought about it, though, she found herself unable to move.

With her head back and her eyes closed, Hermione found herself wishing for Ron. She missed him so much and knew that if he was with her, everything would be okay. Ron would take care of her and make her feel better. Breathing as deeply as she could without the motion of it making her sick, Hermione thought back to the night she and Ron had gotten engaged. She had been so startled when he had seemed to want her to leave the Burrow. She remembered the charming blush that had come over his face and how adorable he had looked in the candlelight, when she had pointed out that he had not actually asked her anything. Had she the strength, she would have smiled.

She was still lost in the memory when she heard the distant sound of a door clicking and a faint noise that resembled footsteps. Then she felt a hand on her back as someone crouched down beside her.

"Hermione?"

He sounded so real and so close.

"Hermione, love?"

She felt wetness on her cheeks as tears leaked out of her eyes. She missed him so much she was imagining he was with her. A hand stroked her hair and she opened her eyes and slowly turned her head. "Ron?" she croaked, finally focusing on the blue eyes she knew so well and seeing them reflect love and concern back at her.

"Yes, love. I'm here," he said quietly.

She started to smile and her stomach lurched. Flinging herself forward to the toilet, Hermione promptly threw up.

~*~

Ron grimaced as Hermione heaved over the toilet bowl. He reached forward and gently pulled her hair back from her face. Quietly, he knelt beside her, holding her hair and rubbing small circles on her back.

He could not believe how bad she looked. She had grown very thin and her skin had taken on the pallor Ron remembered on his Uncle Bilius' face just before he died. Her bushy brown hair was limp in his hand rather than lively and wild the way he liked it. He could feel her vertebrae beneath his other hand and he wondered how long she had been losing weight or was it just because of her being so ill?

After heaving almost nothing but bile for a few minutes, Hermione took some deep breaths and then leaned back into Ron. He settled himself on the cold tile floor and held her. Merlin, how I've missed holding her. He let her recover for a few minutes before speaking.

Finally, he said, "Hermione, I really think we need to get you some help."

She shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I'm fine now. As long as you're here, I'll be just fine."

Stifling a sigh, Ron said firmly, "No, Hermione. This is serious. You need attention, and I'm taking you to St. Mungo's."

She looked at him with bleary eyes that were watering up. "But Ron, I don't want to go to St. Mungo's."

"I know, love," Ron answered. "But, you're very sick and I need you to get well."

"I'll get well," Hermione promised.

"I know you'll try, Hermione. But, I think you're going to need a little help on this one." Ron looked down at his wife and met her trusting eyes. "I know you don't like to admit that," he said. "But we all need help sometimes."

"And this is one of those?" Hermione asked, sounding a bit like a small and lost child. Ron hoped that troll charm had not affected her mind.

"Yes, love. This is one of those times."

Hermione seemed to give the idea careful consideration before finally nodding slowly. "Okay," she said, "I'll go."

Ron gave her a small grin. "Do you think I can move you?" he asked.

"Slowly," said Hermione. "Very slowly."

Ron reached beneath Hermione's knees and, carefully holding her, slowly got up off the floor. Hermione closed her eyes and gave a small whimper as she wrapped her arms around Ron's neck.

Ron thought quickly about the best way to actually get her to St. Mungo's. He was nervous about using the Floo, as the motion involved would undoubtedly have a very bad effect on her insides. He thought Apparition would be better because it involved less spinning, so he carried her out of the suite and carefully down the stairs.

When he reached the kitchen, Ron saw Harry look up from where he was perched on the table. Without having to be asked, Harry jumped down and ran to the door, which he opened wide to let them through. As Ron was passing through the doorway, he heard Harry's anxious voice. "Let me know, will you?"

Giving a brief nod, Ron stepped out of the house and turned on his heel.

~*~

Somewhere in the darkness, she heard voices.

"Very dehydrated...high fever..." said one.

"...should have gotten here sooner..." said another.

"Troll charms...nothing..."

"...wasn't home...brought...knew..."

Ah, Hermione smiled to herself. Ron's voice. She so loved hearing Ron's voice in her dreams.

"How long?" she heard him ask. The answer was lost to her, but a moment later she thought she heard the sound of a door somewhere and then there was a feather-light touch on her right hand. Taking comfort in the fact that he was near, Hermione allowed herself to drift back to sleep.

When she next awoke, it was to realize that her eyes felt very heavy and as she tried to open them, she felt as though she was trapped in a bowl of pudding. She struggled for what seemed like a long time until she managed to get her eyes open. The whiteness of the room almost blinded her, but she managed to blink until her eyes were narrow slits she could just see out of. Slowly, she turned her head and saw Ron sitting in a chair at the side of the bed. He was resting his head on the bed and snoring slightly as he held her hand.

Licking her lips several times before managing to open them, she whispered, "Ron?" At first there was no response; Ron had always been a heavy sleeper. She croaked his name again and then squeezed his hand. She thought she was squeezing firmly, but she barely felt her fingers move. It was, however, enough.

Ron's eyes blinked open and he lifted his head. When he saw her gazing at him, he asked, "Hermione?"

"What happened?" she asked.

"You've been sick, love," he replied, scooting forward on the edge of his chair.

The endearment made her smile weakly. "I was kind of getting that impression."

Ron gave a small grin and she felt her insides warm. It seemed like forever since she had seen that smile. "What do you remember?"

"I was sitting on the sofa and staring into the fire. Then I felt sick."

"Anything else?"

Hermione had vague images of Harry and Winky coming in and trying to help her, but she thought it best not to mention this - at least as far as it concerned Harry. "Not really," she said, shaking her head slightly and then grimacing as a sharp pain knifed through her temple.

"There was a party at your office the day before," Ron reminded her.

She wondered how he knew that. She thought back and remembered Everett dancing on the table with all the young girls cheering him on. She remembered not drinking the punch and then having a conversation with Tim MacDougal. They had discussed werewolves and how unfair the current laws regarding them were. Tim had seemed very passionate about the subject and especially so, once he learned Hermione felt the same way.

"Everett was pissed," Hermione said, watching Ron's grin grow.

"Was he?"

"Yes. He was dancing on a table, singing loudly and off key. What?" she asked when Ron chuckled.

"I didn't know your office was filled with such a party crowd," he replied. Sobering, he continued, "There was a bad charm on all the food, Hermione," he explained. "Someone who was angry with Everett about stealing his girlfriend cast a charm that's only supposed to be used on troll food. Apparently it makes things very tasty to trolls, but it's almost lethal to humans. The effects, however, are slow-moving--because trolls are very slow, I'd imagine--and that's why you didn't get sick until the next day. Once it hits, though, it's very forceful."

Hermione wanted to feel indignant at Everett and whomever he had made so angry, but she was not able to summon the strength for it. "So, this is all because of some stupid, petty, little get-even scheme?"

"Yes."

"What people do in the name of love," she sniffed.

Ron's smile faded. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Well, your fever's down a bit, and your head may still hurt, but you should be well enough to go home in a few days."

Home. Hermione thought of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and realized why Ron sounded so forlorn all of a sudden. She was wondering if he would come 'home' with her and where he had been staying when he squeezed her hand and asked, "Is there anything you need? Anything I can get for you?"

After considering the question for a moment she said, "My toothbrush?"

~*~

Ron was rummaging through some of Hermione's drawers in the dresser and thinking about his visit to Ginny after leaving his wife, when he heard a knock on the door outside the sitting room. Thinking it might be Winky, he dumped what he had so far into a small travel bag on the bed and then went to see what the house elf wanted.

To Ron's surprise, he opened the door to an anxious Harry.

"You were supposed to let me know what happened," snapped Harry, his eyes flashing behind his glasses.

"I just got back," said Ron, wondering why he had to defend himself. "Besides, what do you care?"

"Believe it or not, Ron, I do care."

"Oh, yeah, and constantly jinxing her and blasting her with stunning spells is a great way to show that."

Looking angry, Harry opened his mouth to reply. He paused a second and then snapped it shut again, still wearing an angry expression.

"What?" Ron demanded. "You're not going to hex me?"

"No, Ron," said Harry quietly. "I'm not. I only came to see how Hermione is."

Ron blinked. What?

"So," Harry asked, "how is she?"

Jolted out of his surprise, Ron said, "She's sick." He walked back into the sitting room and Harry followed.

"I know that. What do they say?"

Ron picked a book up off the dining table. Why Werewolves Should Have a Place in Wizarding Society. It was marked just past the middle with a piece of pink ribbon and Ron thought that seemed an odd bookmark for his wife. He also thought the book was something that might keep her busy.

"They say she'll be there at least three days," he said, finally answering Harry. "Apparently troll food charms are 'nothing to be trifled with.'"

Narrowing his eyes, Harry asked, "And then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where does she go?"

Ron suddenly realized what Harry was getting at. He was wondering if Hermione would return to him and Grimmauld Place or if she would go with her husband. "I don't know," he answered, trying to bite back a sudden flare of anger. "She goes where she chooses."

"You're her husband."

"Well, that hasn't seemed to count for much lately, now has it?"

"It does to her."

Ron gave Harry a cold look as he sat down on one of the dining chairs.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

Managing not to snort, Ron replied, "No."

"She only chose to stay with me because she was trying to be a good person," Harry insisted.

"It doesn't matter!" Ron got up angrily. He thought about throwing the book at Harry to try to get him to leave, but knew Hermione would think it was sacrilege; one never threw a book, no matter the reason. "She still chose to stay with you, and that speaks volumes!"

"Ron--"

But Ron cut him off. He was done with this conversation. He did not need to hear from Harry why Hermione had chosen to stay here rather than go with her husband. He also did not really want to think about the fact that Hermione would likely make the same choice when St. Mungo's released her.

"No," he spat, pulling out his wand, "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear how much more important to her you are than I am." Pointing the wand directly at Harry, he added, "Now, get out before I hex you!"

Harry's expression turned sad and he said quietly, "I'm sorry, Ron." He turned and left the sitting room.

Ron closed his eyes and sank back into the dining chair. He dropped both the book and his wand to the floor and buried his head in his hands. Even Harry knew Hermione had chosen him.

~*~

Ginny Weasley sat as she did every Sunday when Ron and his family came to see her: staring straight ahead at nothing and rocking, almost violently, back and forth. The luster in her red hair was gone and Ron was just noticing that, in the past two years since the war had ended, it had apparently not been cut. He could not remember Ginny's hair ever having been waist length before. He would have to speak to someone about grooming her. He knew the private nurse and the other staff that attended to his sister were diligent about her hygiene, and while her hair always appeared to be combed, it was rather in need of being trimmed.

It was also clear she had not been outside in the fresh air or sunshine as her skin was so pale it had become almost translucent and even her freckles seemed faded. There was a large window in the room that let in daylight, but it was not nearly enough to offer the light tan Ginny used to have when she had been active outside trying to best her brothers in everything.

Ron had been sitting with his sister for an hour. He was supposed to be taking Hermione home soon, but had decided to stop here first. It was a bit unusual for him to see Ginny alone and during the week. His visits were also much shorter as the family took turns going in to see her under the watchful eye of their father, who would not leave the room during their weekly sojourns to St. Mungo's.

Whenever they visited, they all talked to Ginny. One of the Healers said it would not hurt and might even help for her to hear their voices. Usually, Ron felt silly talking to her when he knew she would not respond. He would make awkward comments to her about the weather and, if the Cannons were playing, sometimes Quidditch. He did not have to talk to her too much, though, as Hermione would keep up a stream of chatter about an assorted variety of subjects.

Today was different, though. Ron had not felt as awkward since there was no one watching his every move and, after a few minutes, he had simply begun talking and not stopped. He began with why he was at St. Mungo's at such an odd time and this grew into why he was living with George and Hermione was living with Harry. He vented his frustration with the situation and his despair that he and his wife would ever get back together, especially with Harry in the picture. Ron had not even felt self-conscious when a few tears had escaped down his cheeks. He had simply wiped them away and continued telling Ginny how upset and angry and alone he felt.

Now, watching Ginny rock, he realized he was not the only one who was angry and alone and he wished he could do something for his baby sister. The Healers had said in the beginning that she could be this way for a very short time or, possibly, forever. Ron did not think she should live this way forever. It was not the existence he, or any other Weasley, would have wished for her. It was not the existence Neville or, even, Harry, would have wished for her.

Ron mentally cursed Percy. It was all that prat's fault that Ginny was like this. If he had not turned, if he and Bellatrix had not come across Ginny and Neville that night...if, if, if...

But it was also Harry's fault to an extent. If he had not let Ginny go, she would not have fallen in love with Neville and when he was killed she might not have become like this. She had loved Neville as she had once loved Harry and losing them both, especially with such finality in Neville's case, had appeared to be her undoing. The strongest Weasley had fallen and fallen hard into a place where none could follow in order to try to pull her back.

Ron knew he could only pass the blame for so long before it came back to him. After all, he was the one who had killed Percy and this had been in front of Ginny. He always wondered if that had been the final thing that had pushed Ginny over the edge. He feared he would always wonder.

Leaning forward in his chair, Ron took Ginny's hands in his and looked into her strangely blank eyes. "I love you, Ginny. I wish you would come back to us. Thank you for listening to me today." He kissed his sister on the cheek and then got up to leave. At the door he paused and turned back for another glance at her. There was absolutely no change and, after a moment, he shook his head and left.

Ron made his way through the now much-too-familiar hospital and reached his wife's room in just a few short minutes. He found her sitting on the edge of her bed with her arms crossed and her eyes flashing.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

"Well, I see you're feeling better," he said, somewhat acidly.

"I feel perfectly fine, and I've been waiting for you for at least ten minutes. I want to go home."

Ron felt angry. He had been there for Hermione throughout this whole troll food poisoning business and the best she could do, now that she was feeling better, was to snap and snarl at him. And they had not even discussed where she would be going after they left St. Mungo's.

The day before, Ron, who was still staying at ninety-three Diagon Alley, had asked George if he thought it would be okay if he brought Hermione back there the next day.

His brother had seemed surprised. "You think she'll come here?"

"I don't know," Ron had replied. "But, if I can talk her out of going back to Grimmauld Place, I don't have anywhere else to actually take her."

"The Burrow?" George had suggested.

Ron had shaken his head. "It doesn't feel right. The Burrow is only for people who are happily married. Hermione and I have an awful lot to work out, regardless of where we end up."

After thinking for a moment, George had said, "Yeah, sure, Ron. Do what you need to do. I'll help if I can."

Now, Ron was looking even less forward to the conversation he knew was imminent. And he knew how it would turn out, too.

~*~

Hermione was mentally cursing herself. When Ron had not shown up on time, she had become frightened that he would not be coming for her after all. With every minute that passed she became more and more convinced of this, until, when he finally walked in the door of her room, the only response she had to his presence was one of anger towards him for making her feel so afraid.

Now, she could see he was just as angry with her as she watched the tips of his ears turn red in response to her waspish comments. She closed her eyes and uncrossed her arms as she took a deep breath. She had been wringing her hands so forcefully that the only way to stop them was to cross her arms and hold her hands as close to her body as possible. She realized this posture made her appear defensive and hostile, but she had not known what else to do.

"So," Ron asked, with a tone that clearly implied he was working just as hard at holding back his own anger, "are you ready to go?"

Opening her eyes, she nodded and Ron moved forward to pick her travel bag up from the foot of the bed where it was waiting much more patiently than she had been. He heaved it over one shoulder and then took a step back as Hermione stood up. For a moment, they both simply looked at each other.

Hermione studied Ron's face in much the same way she would an Arithmancy problem on an exam. She did not know where to start with this. She remembered the conversation with Harry and the realization she had come to that night. I don't know how to fix this, she thought. No matter what Harry says, I just don't know how.

The little voice in her head piped up, Tell him, it said. Tell him he comes first with you.

He won't believe me, she argued back. Why should he?

Then show him, said the voice. Prove it through your actions.

Hermione took another deep breath and prepared to ask Ron where they were going. She knew that was the only way to prove to Ron what he meant to her: to go with him to wherever he had been staying. As she opened her mouth to ask the question, Ron spoke.

"Come on," he said, gruffly. "Let's go." He turned his back and walked out of the room and all Hermione could do was follow him.

"Ron," she started as they left St. Mungo's and stood on the street in front of what appeared to be a decrepit old department store. He shot her such an unpleasant look that she snapped her mouth shut.

A blue car pulled up and Ron opened the passenger door. "Get in," he stated. She obeyed and he shut the door behind her. She looked to the driver's side of the car just in time to see one of the twins getting out. There was a brief conversation between the brothers and the twin-she thought it was George-patted Ron on the back as Ron got in and sat behind the wheel.

They started forward and Hermione struggled to find something to talk about. As she cast back in her mind, she remembered hearing a story from Ron and Harry back in second year regarding a flying car they had flown to Hogwarts. "Is this it?" she asked curiously. "Is this the Anglia you and Harry went to Hogwarts in?"

"Yes," replied Ron, somewhat tersely. "But we're not flying today. There are too many Muggles around."

She glanced at Ron in admiration and, yet, with a twinge of sadness. Her Ron would have thrown caution to the wind the minute he thought no one was looking and taken her for a ride. However, this Ron was being the responsible and mature Ron she had always told him he should be.

"That's too bad," she said. After a moment she followed this with, "I didn't know you could drive."

She thought she saw a ghost of a grin on Ron's face as he replied, "Yeah. We all can. Dad thought it was important that we all know how to drive a car. We learned on this one on the roads around the Burrow. When he felt we were ready, we would drive through Ottery St. Catchpole until he declared we were fit drivers."

Hermione thought about that for a moment. "Uh, Ron?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

"Do you, uh, have an actual, er, license?"

Ron ears turned red and she winced as she realized she had again made him angry. What a talent I have, she thought wryly.

"No," he finally said.

"But, if you get pulled over for something...?" She let the question trail off.

"If we get pulled over for something," Ron continued for her, "we simply Obliviate the officer and move on."

"Oh." Hermione opened her mouth to ask Ron another question, but she saw a tick begin just next to his left eye and decided it would be better if she kept quiet. She had a lot of repair work to do and things were not starting out well.

Leaning back in the car, Hermione watched the scenery go by. Ron turned expertly from one street to another and she started as she suddenly realized where he was taking her. She gave him a questioning glance, but he ignored her and pulled up in front of the house.

"I'll get your bag," he said, turning off the engine and getting out of the car.

Hermione was barely out of her side of the car when Ron appeared and helped her out the rest of the way. He slammed the door behind her and, putting a hand on the small of her back, guided her up to the front door. She stood back a few steps as he reached out to grasp the knob.

The last time Hermione had stood in front of this door had been very different. She had been nervous, yes, but also excited. Then they had been full of hope for the future. Hope for their lives together and her hope that they could help a friend. How could things have gone so wrong? she thought miserably as she watched Ron stand back from the open door so she could pass. She took a halting step forward and then looked up into Ron's eyes. She willed him to read the question in her mind: Are you sure? But Ron's eyes clouded over and, if there had been an answer there, it was gone now.

With her head starting to ache and her legs feeling weak, she did the only thing she could think to do and walked through the front door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

~*~

Ron angrily watched Hermione walk up the stairs to their suite. He had seen her hesitate and hoped she would say something, but she had not and Ron knew the war was lost. Earlier in the day, he had packed a bag of his own belongings from the bedroom on the third floor and taken it to Diagon Alley. No matter how the day turned out, he had been sure of one thing and that was he would not be spending the night under Harry's roof. It seemed, however, that his wife would be. Trying not to grind his teeth, Ron followed her up the stairs.

In the suite, Ron set the travel bag down on Hermione's bed and walked back to the sitting room. Harry, or, more likely, Winky on Harry's orders, had seen to it that there were fresh flowers on the mantel. They were set right next to their wedding photo and Ron cringed to remember how happy they had been. He glanced around the sparkling sitting room. There were more flowers on the dining table between the crystal candlesticks Aunt Ethel had given them for their wedding. On the back of the sofa, the quilt Mr. Weasley had given to Hermione for her birthday was neatly folded.

Hermione was putting the books Ron had brought her on the table in front of the sofa. Despite being so sick, she had made quick work of the werewolf book. Ron looked at his wife longingly for a moment while she was occupied with her books. He quickly wiped the expression off his face, however, when she straightened and looked up at him. Her face told him she was glad to be home and he felt a pain pierce his heart.

"Well," he said in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone. "Winky will see to everything you need. If there's anything you want, you can call me using the Floo. When I'm not at work, I'll be at--"

"You're not staying?" Hermione cut him off.

Ron paused a moment and took in what appeared to be panic on Hermione's face. Finally he said, "No. I'm not staying."

"But Ron--"

"I'm not staying here, Hermione," he said firmly.

He thought he saw tears in her eyes and begged Merlin or anyone who could help him, to keep her from crying. He did not know if he could fight her tears and win.

Hermione's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment and Ron stood waiting for her. It would be just downright rude to walk away from an almost-crying woman before she could find her voice.

"But, I need you," she managed to whisper. "I really need you." A tear slid down her cheek and Ron knew he was lost.

Bloody hell, he thought. All he said was, "Fine. I'll stay for tonight. Tonight only." He thought the smile she gave him in response to this made giving in completely worthwhile. After all, it was just one night.

~*~

A week went by and Hermione had managed to get Ron to stay at Grimmauld Place. Each night, she appealed to him to stay with her, claiming she still did not feel her best. "My head hurts," she would say, or, "I'm feeling a bit nauseated." That was all it took to get her husband to remain with her. The only thing she could not control, however, was the fact that Ron refused to share her bed. He was adamant about sleeping in the sitting room on the sofa and nothing she could say or do would persuade him otherwise.

Each day Hermione would try to find a way to tell Ron she was sorry and that he was the most important thing to her. She had thought that by making sure he was nearby, it would be easy to find some way to get the conversation going, but whenever she thought she found an opening, she also found a way out of it. She would suddenly need to use the loo, Harry would knock on the door--which always incited anger in Ron, who would disappear through the Floo--or Winky would appear with the day's post or a meal or just to check up. No, it had not been as easy as she thought it would be to broach the subject.

Of course, it could also have had something to do with the fact that, for Hermione, saying she was wrong went against her nature. She mentally railed at herself and the little voice in her head railed at her as well. Every time she spoke to Harry, he asked her if she had spoken to Ron. She knew what he meant and shook her head. Even Harry was beginning to become exasperated with her.

"You have to talk to him!" he would insist.

"I will!" she would reply. "I just haven't had the chance!"

And she was afraid it was about to become more difficult.

She had returned to work that morning. Feeling well enough to go to work would mean that she could not really claim she felt ill enough that evening for Ron to have to stay with her. She had seen the look in his eyes when she had walked, far too bright-eyed, into the sitting room all dressed in her robes and ready to go.

Sitting down at the table, she had looked at Ron and smiled. He gave her a small smile back as he looked her up and down and that was when she had realized her mistake. Trying to be as nonchalant as possible, Hermione had reached for a slice of melon when Ron dropped his spoon in his bowl and said, "Have a nice day back."

"Thank you," she had said, watching him get up from the table and head to the fireplace.

He took a pinch of Floo powder and turned around. "Give that Wishhart bloke hell, okay?" he had said, grinning at her.

She had seen the grin and felt immeasurably relieved, sure he would be home tonight and she could talk to him. "I'll do my best," she had said.

He nodded once and then disappeared in a burst of green flames.

The day itself went by quickly. Hermione was apparently not the only one was who was only just back from the troll food poisoning incident as Everett not only stopped by her office to apologize profusely, but she also heard his voice apologizing to at least two other people.

"It's okay, Everett," she told him while he was standing in her doorway.

"Really, Hermione, I am so very sorry about this whole thing," he repeated.

"Everett, it's not your fault this bloke was a little overly emotional," she said, trying to hold back a smile.

"No," he sighed. "I suppose not."

"Are you still with the girl?" Hermione asked.

"Girl?" Everett seemed confused.

"Yes. You know, the one you supposedly stole from Denham?" she prompted.

Everett's eyes lit up. "Oh!" he said. "Her. No. It was just one date."

Hermione was not sure why, but this answer annoyed her. At the very least, it should have been unrequited love that had caused this whole disastrous event. "Well," she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice, "that's too bad. Now, if you don't mind, I have a lot to catch up on."

The rest of the day flew by as Hermione tried to catch up with the work that was piled on her desk. When there was about an hour left, she looked at the stack and decided that she had made quite good progress, really. Glancing at her watch, she wondered about the possibility of leaving early. Despite her productive day, she had not been able to get Ron out of her mind.

She still did not know how to begin the conversation. Ron, I love you, don't ever leave me again, did not sound quite right. In fact, she knew it was downright wrong.

The little voice tried to prompt her. Start with Ron, you were right and I was wrong, it suggested.

Hermione flinched. Did she really need to be that blunt?

Maybe, suggested the voice, tell him what you told him last spring. You always come first with me, Ron. I'm sorry I forgot that.

She tried to shake the voice off, but it was persistent. You can't keep putting this off, it said vehemently. You have to talk to him or you're going to lose him forever.

"I know," she said aloud. "Now, stop harassing me! I'll talk to him."

See that you do, said the voice.

The decision made, Hermione gathered her things and left the office.

She waited impatiently in the queue at the large fireplaces in the atrium--the waiting gave her too much time to think about the various ways she could begin this conversation--and finally her turn came. Taking a pinch of Floo powder, she stepped in and said clearly, "The suite at number twelve, Grimmauld Place." There was a burst of green as the flames shot up around her and then she was spinning past fireplaces before finally landing gracefully in her sitting room. Brushing soot off her robes she stepped out of the fireplace and came face to face with Ron.

They both froze and stared at each other.

She looked at the sofa and saw the large bag Ron had been hastily shoving his things into when she had arrived. Her eyes wide, she looked to his for an explanation.

"You're home early," he said, stating the obvious.

When she found her voice, she said, "So are you."

"I was, er, just gathering up some more of my things."

"Why?" Hermione knew it sounded desperate, but she did not care.

"Well, it's pretty clear to me that you're feeling better, so you don't need me here anymore." He looked so dejected that Hermione felt like crying. Actually, she really felt like crying because he was leaving again.

"You don't have to go," she said, biting her lip. "Really, Ron, I want you to stay."

"You knew I wasn't going to continue to live here. I know you did." He closed the bag and threw the strap over his shoulder.

She was about to tell him that she would go with him. Wherever he was going, she would go with him. Instead, what came out of her mouth was vastly different. "I can't believe you're going to walk out on me again," she cried.

And just like that, the familiar anger that had been between them since they were eleven-years-old flared up.

"You're bloody right I am," snarled Ron. "You aren't the only person in this marriage, you know, Hermione. All I've done is give and give and give and all you've done is take and take. Nothing has changed since last November. You getting sick doesn't suddenly make everything all okay again!"

"You haven't even tried," Hermione spat back.

Ron gaped at her. "I haven't tried? You've got to be bloody joking! You chose Harry over me and yet I was the one who was here for you when you were sick. I'm the one who came to take you to St. Mungo's because your precious Harry wouldn't leave this house even to take care of you. I'm the one who sat with you, held your hand, dealt with the Healers, brought you your things and brought you home and you dare to stand there and tell me I haven't tried?"

Hermione knew he was right, but some little imp inside of her, the same one that had kept her quiet all week, knocked the little voice aside as it was about to speak up and tell Hermione what to say. Instead of apologizing as she had intended to do, she blurted, "You wouldn't even share my bed this past week like a real husband should."

The voice had been squashed and the imp was now in control. Hermione's comment had been an attempt to goad Ron, to possibly even hurt him. She did not know why she felt the need to do this, but it was there and once the argument had begun, the comments flew. On both sides.

Ron went red. The bag on his shoulder dropped as he shifted his weight in an effort to control himself. He straightened his arm and let it fall to the floor.

"What do you need me for, when you've got Harry?" he demanded.

Without thinking, Hermione flung out, "At least Harry behaves like a man!"

"Oh, yeah," responded Ron, taking a step forward. "A real man's life is measured by how he hides in his house."

"He doesn't need to go anywhere to be in touch with his emotions." She took a step back as Ron took another forward. Now there was something in his eyes that was almost menacing. There was an almost wild reaction deep in the pit of her stomach as she watched those eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. She continued to goad him. "The only emotion you're in touch with is self-pity."

His nostrils flared again as he moved forward once more. "Is that so," he asked darkly.

"Yes," she shot back as she stepped backward into the wall.

Ron closed the distance between them and clamped his hands on her upper arms. There was a brief pause as fire flew between their gazes and then Ron's mouth came crashing down on hers. He kissed her with a passion and ferocity she had never felt before, and she kissed him back just as fiercely.

When they finally pulled apart, their breathing was ragged and it took Ron a moment to rasp out, "Still think I feel nothing but sorry for myself?"

Hermione was just as slow in her answer. "Yes," she finally managed as she put her hands on his waist and entangled her fingers in the belt loops on his jeans. "Show me you've got more than that," she challenged, watching as his eyes blazed just before he bore down on her again.

They came together with a harshness neither of them had previously realized was there. In the past, they had most certainly been passionate with each other, but never had they let down every reserve barrier; this time there was no holding back as clothes were thrown indiscriminately around the room. Their hands were rough as they grabbed each other. Ron seized Hermione almost violently at times, leaving her with bruises she would discover later, while Hermione's nails left deep scratches on his back, torso, and arms. She nipped at his ears, shoulder and neck while he left his own teeth marks in other places. In the end, there were no words as they came together in a way they never had before, and both would be left with lasting impressions and, even, recriminations.

Afterward, they collapsed into one heap on the floor and struggled to regain their breath. By the time Hermione was able to speak, Ron was already asleep with his head resting on Hermione's thigh.

~*~

Ron's foot was asleep and he blinked his eyes open to see what could have caused that. He felt a weight on him as he gazed up from the sitting room floor in confusion. A slight turn of his head revealed the weight to be his wife and, as he took in their unclothed state, it all came rushing back to him.

He had tried to get back to the suite early and get his things packed so he could be gone by the time Hermione arrived home. He knew he was being a coward for sneaking off the way he was, but it seemed to be the only thing he could do. Part of the reason he had agreed to stay with Hermione all week was to give the two of them a chance to talk. Ron's stubbornness insisted that Hermione be the one to start the conversation, and several times he had thought she was going to - only to be disappointed when she would look away or suddenly bury her face in a book. He could tell by her eye movement that she was not really reading, and each time he felt slighted that she had again kept silent.

But this morning when Hermione had sat down for breakfast and Ron could see she was obviously healthy again, it became apparent that she just expected them to pick up where they left off two months earlier. Despite knowing that he could have brought the subject up at any time during the week himself, Ron decided then that he would have to leave again. Hermione had clearly become comfortable with the status quo, and it seemed that she was expecting him to do the same.

Ron had been stunned when Hermione, who must have had loads of work to catch up on and would most likely stay very late in an effort to not only catch up but get ahead, had stepped out of the fireplace so early.

There had been words and then...well, then.

Feeling his face turn pink in embarrassment as he recalled his violent actions that had landed them on the floor like this, Ron slowly extricated himself from Hermione's arms. He took a pillow from the sofa and gently put it under her head and then covered her with that bloody maroon and orange quilt. As quickly and quietly as he could, Ron gathered up his clothes and dressed.

He picked his bag up from the floor where he had dropped it and looked sadly at his wife. He had never made such angry love to his wife before, and he was ashamed. He felt there was no way he could bear to stay until she woke up, no way he would be able to face her. Now, he thought, I've ruined this. There's absolutely no way we can recover. His last thought as he slipped out the door into the hallway was I'm worse than Harry.

~*~

Hermione sat quietly in a small exam room at St. Mungo's. The room was cool and the gown they had put her in let in a breeze she could well have done without. A Healer had spent some time with her, listening to her complaints and taking notes on a parchment before performing what seemed to Hermione a perfunctory exam. Afterwards, he had smiled at her and told her he would be right back. That was over half an hour ago, and Hermione was starting to get angry at the delay.

These days it did not take much for Hermione to get angry. She felt as though the only thing fueling her was her fury towards Ron. Even Harry had stayed away from her since the day Ron had left for the second time.

She had awakened on the cold wood floor to find that Ron had covered her and left. When she saw his bag was gone, she knew he was gone for good. Lovely, she told herself, just lovely. She was not sure what it was that angered her more: that she had provoked him the way she did, or that he had made love to her and then left anyway.

Every day she told herself she no longer wanted Ron back and, to that end, she refused to contact him. Every night, she sat down and wrote him a long apologetic letter telling him how sorry she was and asking him what she could do to win him back. She never signed her name, but instead left the letter open-ended and cried herself to sleep. She would reread the letters when she got up in the morning and then promptly burn them. She had fed a great deal of parchment to the flames in the fireplace during recent weeks.

A few days earlier she had been in Diagon Alley running some errands--parchment was high on her list of needed items--and was walking past a butcher shop when someone came out of it and the smell from inside assailed her nose and she wrinkled it in disgust. Odd, she thought, that's never happened before. Quickly, she had moved out of range as her stomach started roiling. A few minutes later she stopped. Standing in the middle of the street, she tilted her head and gnawed on her lip, lost in deep thought. She had noticed recently that certain food smells were causing some rather unpleasant reactions, usually along the lines of nausea and, on one occasion, vomiting. It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps she was suffering from some kind of delayed reaction to the troll food charm.

She had debated the issue with herself for a few days before deciding she did not want to take a chance on getting that sick again and this was why she was sitting in this little room waiting for a Healer who seemed to have gone to lunch. Just as she was glancing at her watch and deciding she would give the little man five more minutes, the door opened and a petite redhead entered the room.

The woman smiled brightly at Hermione and said, "Hello, Mrs. Weasley, I'm Gwendolyn Morris. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Uhm, hello," Hermione replied,

Healer Morris sat down in a chair opposite where Hermione was sitting and proceeded to consult the parchment in her hands while continuing her speech. "Now, I do have some questions--they're rather standard--and we'll have to set up a timetable for you, as I'll want to see you on a regular basis."

Hermione felt her eyes widen at this. What could be so wrong that they would need to see her on a regular basis?

Looking up from her notes, Healer Morris must have seen the expression on Hermione's face. Her brow furrowed in concern and she asked, "What's wrong?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said Hermione. "That other Healer was in here and he told me he would be right back and then after the longest time you came in here and you tell me you need to see me regularly?"

After a brief pause the Healer smiled. "He didn't tell you?" she asked.

When Hermione shook her head, the redheaded woman's smile grew and she set her parchment down in her lap. "Let me start again," she said. "I'm Gwendolyn Morris and I'll be your Healer-midwife."

Hermione sat quietly as she took in the words. It was a moment before the true meaning of them came to her and she responded as a true Weasley.

"You're joking!"

~*~

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was celebrating the approach of Valentine's Day with several new products, including an exotic line of love potions. They began with a simple potion that would wear off in a few short hours and graduated up to one that would not only last a whole fortnight, but that suggested the possibility of a lingering imprint. There were some others that were geared for specific genders. The one for men promised that the women they gave them to would not only fall madly in love with them but the woman would cook favorite meals, pick up socks and generally cater to the bloke's every need without complaining. On the other hand, the one for women guaranteed their man would shower them with gifts of flowers, chocolate, and jewelry; take them out for sumptuous meals; and give the most engaging of foot massages.

The shelves were almost empty.

Ron carried a stack of boxes out to the floor. He had stocked the potions every night before the shop closed. Since it was a Saturday and the Cannons were not playing for another two weeks, he had the day off and had found himself refilling the shelves on a constant basis. Both Fred and George had claimed that when Ron was working in the shop, it was his responsibility to make sure the love potion shelves were always full. Ron felt it was some sort of twisted punishment because things had not worked out with Hermione.

Ron vaguely heard a woman's voice say, "Ooh, these are the good ones!" He found himself being herded toward the till as the boxes were grabbed right out of his arms until, finally, he was left standing there with one box in his hand and a dazed expression on his face. Hearing laughter, Ron turned to glare at Fred who was standing behind the till handing a bag to a witch with an excited look on her face. Fred winked at Ron as another witch stepped forward to pay for a love potion.

"I'm really starting to hate this place," Ron muttered to himself as he turned back toward the stockroom.

A few weeks earlier, when Ron had returned to the flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, it had been to find Fred and George doing their weekly bookkeeping at the kitchen table. Ron had sat down heavily in a chair and they had both looked at him with slightly surprised expressions. When he told them it was finally, completely over, they had sat there in shock.

Leaving out the furious lovemaking, Ron had told the twins what the week had been like and about the big fight in the sitting room. He had been about to ask if he could stay there again when Fred spoke up.

"Why didn't you try to talk to her?" he had asked.

"Because, she's the one who made the decision," Ron had answered.

"Wait," George had said, holding up a hand. "Let me see if I've got this right. You didn't ask her where she wanted to go, you just took her to Grimmauld Place?"

Ron had thought about it. "Yeah," he had finally answered. "I guess that's right. She was so angry that I kept her waiting and when she said she wanted to go home, I just reckoned that's what she meant."

"Ron, you idiot!" both twins had cried at once.

He had jumped as Fred continued. "If you weren't going to ask, you should have just brought her here. You took her to Grimmauld Place, and that probably made her feel like you didn't want her."

"Or," George had put in, "like you were willing to do what she wanted. Either way, you sent her the wrong message."

Fred had nodded. "You have a lot to learn about marriage, ickle Ronniekins."

"Shut up," Ron had said dejectedly. "Since it's over, I doubt if it matters now, anyway."

The twins had allowed Ron to stay at the flat with George, so long as he put in his share of time at the shop when he not working his regular job with the Chudley Cannons. Ron had agreed and he had to admit, at least it did keep him busy.

Then, they started the Valentine's Day promotion and Ron had been miserable.

He left the stockroom with another armful of potions and hoped he would actually get some of them on the shelves. Maybe I should just stand at the door and hand them out, he thought as he felt one get grabbed from the top of the pile.

An hour later with the shelves about a quarter full, Ron went up to his brothers behind the counter and said, "That's it. I'm done with those things until the store closes. I'm tired of being mobbed by women!"

The twins burst out laughing, and George gave him a good shove.

Just then someone walked up to the counter and the laughter suffered a quick and painful death. Ron turned to see what happened and saw Hermione standing on the other side of the counter.

"Hello, Fred. George," she said politely before looking at Ron. "Can we talk?" she asked him.

Ron opened his mouth to answer and heard Fred's voice. "Of course, Hermione. Ron was just about to take a break anyway."

"Yeah," seconded George. "Why don't the two of you head on upstairs. Have some tea or pumpkin juice or something." The twins ushered Ron and Hermione to the door that led upstairs.

Once in the kitchen, they stood looking awkwardly at each other. Ron watched Hermione bite her lip and noticed that she was wringing her hands, and he knew what it had cost her to come here. He was opening his mouth to ask her if she wanted something to drink--anything to break the silence--when she spoke.

"We have to talk," she said, quickly.

He looked into her eyes and nodded. "Yeah. We do." Leaning back against a counter, Ron wondered where to start.

"Look Hermione--"

"Ron--"

They both stopped and then tried to smile to encourage the other to speak. After another moment they both opened their mouths only to shut them again.

Finally, Ron said, "You first."

"Please," she said.

Ron waited while she worked her mouth soundlessly for a moment. He did not want to risk accidentally interrupting her again. After what seemed an age, she looked up at Ron and spoke.

"I'm pregnant."

~*~