Separately Together Again

CHAPTER 1 -- IN WHICH RON GETS SOME INTERESTING NEWS

     Ronald Weasley glared at his reflection. A grumpy, frustrated twenty-three year old glared back at him. He sighed and turned on the faucet, splashing water all over his face. Damn. He still wasn't awake. He turned it to cold and splashed himself. Good Lord, if he kept this up, he'd be late for work (again -- how many times had he been late? It felt like forty-six, though he knew that couldn't be right ... much less than that) and there'd be hell to pay with Kingsley.

     He stared at his reflection. To hell with Kingsley. A few minutes is nothing.

     He pulled off his boxers and turned the shower on as hot as he could stand. He was one of the few Weasleys that didn't believe in cold showers, along with Bill and Dad. He grimaced. His father was dead, had been dead ... so he should just not even go there today. Think of something else. Like how Kingsley is going to beat the shit out of you. Yeah, there's a pleasant thought.

     Suddenly, he heard a loud noise. Tapping. Strange, he thought to himself. Is that Pig?

     Stepping quickly out of the shower (oops, a little too quick, almost fell there), he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed into his bedroom. At the window sat an impatient looking Hedwig, her large brown eyes glaring at him accusingly.

     "Oh, don't give me that," he snapped. "I'm the one late, not you. What? I'm not -- " Hedwig was sitting there, waiting for him to write a response.

     "No," he said firmly. "I'll read this later, Hedwig. I'm LATE, get it? Late?" She sat on the bed resolutely. She wasn't budging.

     "Oh, for Merlin's sake," he cried. He glanced towards the clock. To his amazement, he still had ten minutes to spare -- enough time to respond to Harry. He grabbed the parchment off the bed, scowling at Hedwig, and opened it. Luckily, Harry's neat writing covered only a third of the page.

     Dear Ron,

     Hello, Weasley. I'm writing from you-know-where, and you'll-never-believe-who says hi. (I'll explain later.) You'll never believe what's happening. Well, I'll tell you later if you-know-who doesn't tell you herself. Anyway, I'll be back soon. Maybe even today, -- which reminds me, it's March thirtieth, turn your clock ahead an hour. Daylight Savings, isn't it great? Hehe, not. Well, gotta go!

     -- Your favorite you-know-what,

     Harry

     Ron stared at it. He assumed Harry had put a Secretive Charm on it, which would explain all the "you-know-who's", so he wasn't really worried about that. He kept reading one sentence over and over.

     " ... which reminds me, it's March thirtieth, turn your clock ahead an hour ... " Shit. He was going to be late, again.

     "Dammit," Ron sighed, accepting fate. He grabbed his quill and turned the parchment over.

     "Harry --

     Late for work again, can you believe it? Ah, well. Hurry back. Thanks for the heads up about Daylight Savings., pal. Lovely to have a forewarning. Hope things are well in ... um ... wherever you are. Anyway, gotta go, bye!

     --Ron

     P.S. And you're not my favorite anything, Potter.

     Chuckling to himself, he tied the parchment to Hedwig's leg and watched her fly out the window. He put on his work robes and Disapparated, wondering how bad of a lecture he'd be getting from Kingsley.

     "Forty-six times, Weasley," Kingsley said, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head. Ron wished he had a chair. His legs ached from walking up all the stairs to get to this office, and all he wanted was to sit and relax. Kingsley had other ideas.

     "How do you get to be late forty-six times? And each time, I have to cover your ass. Well, my excuses are running low. I don't know what else to tell your brother. There is no doubt in my mind that Percy's patience with you is growing thin. So this time, this forty-sixth time, I think you can explain to the Minister why you are late. By yourself. Because forty-six -- "

     "Forty-six is not a happy number," said a falsely stern voice from the doorway, and Ron chuckled. He didn't have to turn to recognize that voice.

     "Hello, Harry," said Kingsley, giving a half-exasperated, half-amused sigh. "What brings you here?"

     "Mind if I borrow Ron for a second?" asked Harry, grinning and clapping Ron on the back. Ron was trying to hold back a smile for fear of losing his job.

     "No, I suppose I don't, but Percy wants him at one o'clock ... and don't let him be late, will you, Harry?"

     "Sure thing, Kingsley," Harry replied, and Ron left as quickly as possible.

     "Saved my ass, mate. I was afraid I was going to be fired for sure."

     "Well, the way you're going, it wouldn't surprise me, Ron. Was he serious? You've been late forty-six times?" Harry was staring at Ron incredulously. Ron scowled.

     "Hey, just because you're the teacher's pet doesn't mean we all have to measure up to your standards -- "

     "Measure up to my standards?" Harry cried, not sure whether to laugh or not. "I didn't say tardiness is unacceptable, just that repeated tardiness is. Forty-six times tardiness is."

     Ron said nothing. The truth was, he'd been having ... dreams lately. Weird ones. He couldn't remember anything from them, and it drove him nuts. He knew who they focused on, though. He always woke up, panting, arms hugging someone invisible, and he could smell a perfume wafting tantalizingly in front of his nose, and oh, how he ached to know ... ached to remember why he thought of her, even after all these years. How long had it been?

     "Ron?" Harry asked. Ron was standing, frozen, in the doorway to the office they shared, lost in thought.

     "Oh, sorry," he replied, shaking his head to clear it and sitting down at his desk. Ah, that's the ticket. "So, uh, ... how was -- erm -- where did you go, by the way?"

     "Bulgaria," said Harry, smiling. "And I wanted to tell you -- guess who I ran into?"

     Ron shrugged, still trying to relax his muscles.

     "Hermione Jane Granger," said Harry in a rush, as though he'd been waiting to tell Ron for days.

     "Hermione?" Ron croaked incredulously. Ice was flooding his stomach. Her, it was her, he couldn't believe it! "How is she? What's she doing for a living? Is -- "

     "Ron, calm down," Harry laughed, grinning broadly. "She's doing great. She's a Healer at St. Mungo's now, and she's rolling in the cash. Not that you'd know it -- can you believe she's saving her money? She lives in a small, one-bedroom house, nothing fancy, but she's making more than you and I combined, mate! Can you imagine?"

     "Is she coming down here? When can she visit?" Ron asked, excitement coursing through him. "I -- " but then a thought struck him. Hard.

     " .. be here next week, maybe, because she's taking a break from work," Harry was saying. Ron looked at Harry, then at a picture on his desk. There they were, at the end of seventh year, the infamous trio, Harry's arms looped around both he and Hermione, all three of them laughing. Hermione's face was shining with tears. Ron watched as his photographic self put bunny ears on Harry's head.

     "Harry," said Ron, in an oddly low voice. "Why's she in Bulgaria?"

~~~~~

     Uh-oh. Harry had been waiting for that one. He tried to dance around it, but Ron had made the connection. Ron had to know, but if Harry, perhaps, lied -- but no, that wouldn't work. Lying solved absolutely none of his problems. Maybe if he pretended he didn't hear him, or something ... but then, that would also be, in a sense, lying. The truth was, he'd been expecting and dreading that question since he knew the answer.

Two days previous ...

     He was standing in line at the Bulgarian Gringotts, tapping his foot impatiently and checking his watch every ten seconds. His foot sounded out a rhythm. "Gonna be late, gonna be late, hachacha, latelatelate, .. " he found himself muttering, earning him strange looks from the man behind him. The worst part was, he couldn't even see how far the front of the line was from where he stood -- the woman in front of him had such a thick head of hair. Brown and bushy, it stuck out in both directions. Way too much body. Definitely obscuring his vision. Perhaps a polite yet firm request to step out of the way. Yes, that would do.

     "Excuse me, miss?" he said, politely as possible. "Would you -- "

     His query was cut short. When she had turned around, his brain had frozen for a second. He knew that face.

     "Harry James Potter," said Hermione in awe, staring at him for a second before beaming and wrapping him into a tight hug. He was laughing, amazed, and returned her hug. She pulled away first and he stood, staring at her, unable to speak.

     "How have you been?" she asked, still smiling widely and letting out little giggles of happiness. Harry unstuck his tongue.

     "I can't believe it's you! You look great! Why are you here? How are you doing? Where are you staying?" Words seemed to be tumbling out of Harry's mouth of their own will. Hermione laughed.

     "I've been doing fine, I've been living with my boyfr -- oops," she said, giggling in a very un-Hermione-like way. "I mean, my fiancee."

     Harry felt his jaw drop. "Who is it? Someone I know?"

     She nodded mysteriously, and then extended her hand. Harry stared at the ring in awe. It was the most gorgeous thing he had laid eyes on.

     "Oh, Miss 'Mione, I am not worthy," he laughed, examining it in amazement. "Who is the lucky -- and apparently filthy rich -- guy?"

     She blushed, but her smile was as broad as ever. "Viktor Krum."

     Harry's jaw fell off.

     "Oh -- my -- God," he said, and then he grabbed her hand again and looked it over once more. "You're going to -- how long?"

     "Until we get married?" Hermione asked, confused.

     "How long have you been together?"

     "Since we were eighteen. He just proposed two weeks ago. We tie the knot in June."

     Harry pulled her into another hug. "As long as you're happy," he whispered, smiling, and she hugged him tighter.

     They broke apart, and for a second Hermione said nothing, just smiled at Harry in the way she used to when they were kids. Harry just remembered -- Ron.

     "Oh, Hermione, you've got to come back to Britain, Ron will want to see you!" Harry said, and Hermione gasped, apparently delighted at the thought of seeing Ron again.

     "Oh, definitely -- yes, oh, hold on -- "

     And then she had taken out her pocket calendar and made sure that she had next week totally open, and promised to come and visit. And the rest of the afternoon was spent waiting in line, talking about the past and the present, teasing each other. It had felt good.

     "Ron," Harry said, and then he walked over and put his hand on Ron's shoulder, squeezing it gently.

     "Harry, why was she -- "

     "She wants to come see you, mate. We can make our friendship all over again. And if you're a good friend, you'll be okay with this ... she's engaged to Viktor Krum."

     Harry let the words wash over Ron, knowing it would sting. To everyone but Ron, it had been obvious Ron had liked Hermione. Loved her, he should say. Hermione even knew, on some level. And perhaps she had loved him back. But his chance had come and gone, and now she was engaged to someone else, and Ron would just have to deal.

     "Oh," said Ron. His head was in his hands, so Harry couldn't see his expression, but he sounded hurt. Harry squeezed his shoulder again.

     "Ron, I know it might hurt, but -- "

     "Hurt?" said Ron, finally looking up at him. Ah, yes, the familiar unreadable mask. Harry knew Ron too well.

     "Yes, mate, hurt. It's a normal human feeling, just like .. love." He said the last word a bit quieter, hoping Ron would understand ... but Ron will be Ron, he supposed.

     "Are you -- you think I -- shut up, Harry. I don't care who Hermione's banging. I never have, never will. If she wants to throw her life away with that scumbag Krum, why should I care, right?"

     "Right," said Harry, walking over to his side of the office. He was angry. God, couldn't Ron just ... why did he still act fifteen? Couldn't he just ... grow up? Merlin, it was frustrating. And he, Harry, wasn't going to put up with it.

     "What's that supposed to mean?"

     "What's what supposed to mean?"

     "'Right'. What do you mean, 'right'?"

     Harry slammed some files onto the desk in front of him, and then he paused. He looked up. Ron's face was full of emotion, but he was as stubborn as ever. Harry sighed.

     "Nothing, Ron. Sorry."

     Ron was silent. Then he stood up, walked out of the room, and slammed the door behind him.

     Harry stared at the picture on his desk. He, Ron and Hermione, taken middle of seventh year. He watched as he stole a Chocolate Frog from Ron and the wrestled over it, Hermione with this look on her face, like, "Boys will be boys ... " He found himself smiling.

     Rubbing his head, he stood up, stretching. Ron was probably in a bathroom, splashing water on his face repeatedly like he always does. And Harry wasn't in a position to march down there and demand that he accept that he has or did have feelings for Hermione Jane Granger, however dearly he may like to. So he got to filing, humming to himself, wondering when he himself would find a nice girl and settle down.