Separately Together Again

CHAPTER THREE

In which they all fall apart at the Three Broomsticks

     Ron ran his fingers through his hair, yawning. He'd had a good dream again. A very good dream, if he remembered correctly. He rolled over drowsily and looked at the clock. Blinking, he tried to focus on the small alarm clock. The harsh red numbers flashed 12:00 at him, and he groaned a little, cursing every storm he'd ever gone through.

"Urgh," he grunted, reaching for the nightstand. His hand groped around for a second, and then he grasped his watch. He swung it towards his face, squinting at the tiny hands. He froze, not believing his eyes. One thirty??! He sat upright quickly, rubbing his eyes and blindly attempting to disentangle himself from the bed sheets. He kicked out, managing only to strike a wooden bedpost with his foot. Crying out in pain, he twisted around to grab his toe and promptly fell off the bed, bringing the bed clothes and two pillows with him and landing awkwardly. Sharp pains in his ribs and left hand told him he'd somehow landed directly on the hand that held the watch and he rolled over, thoroughly exasperated.

He stood up slowly, holding onto the mattress for support, and yanked at the sheet that covered his legs; it came off with little effort, as though mocking him. Glaring at it as though it were somehow capable of human emotion, he opened the top drawer of his dresser and yanked out his work robes, tossing them onto the floor next to him. When he slammed the drawer shut, however, he somehow managed to catch his fingers in it. Wrenching his hand from the offending drawer and howling in pain and anger, he clutched his hand and stumbled backward, tripped over a shoe, and fell flat on his back.

He lay there for a moment, somewhat afraid to move, staring up at the ceiling. Slowly, he stood up. His head throbbed where it had slammed against the floor, and he wobbled slightly. He climbed back into bed, not bothering to set the clock, his watch forgotten on the floor, and tried to go back to sleep. 'Work could wait,' that had been his motto since he was eleven, and hell if he was gonna change his ways now.

~~~~~~~~~~

Harry checked himself in the mirror. Mrs. Weasley had been right, all those years ago -- he looked fantastic in green. It brought out the color of his eyes well. He looked far from great -- his hair was still messy, his glasses still huge, his scar still glaringly obvious -- but he looked better than normal. He supposed he could fix his hair, maybe. Frowning, he picked up a comb and attempted to flatten it. No such luck.

     Ah, well. Can’t have everything. And Ginny thought he looked fine -- always a plus. Humming to himself tunelessly, he grabbed his wand from the nightstand drawer and tucked his wallet into his back pocket, Disapparating....

     .... And Apparating in front of his best friend's house, still humming. He walked briskly up to the door and rapped three times, checking his watch. One-forty-five. Perfect, he thought, smiling. If they were lucky, they'd be there at The Three Broomsticks by two -- right on time.

     He stood waiting for a moment, and then knocked again, louder.

     "Ron!" he bellowed, taking out his key and opening the door. "Ron?" The living room was empty, and the entire place smelled distinctly of Ron: the manly smell of cologne strangely mixed with the odd smell of potpourri. He stepped in, taking great care not to muss up his robes, kicking aside a magazine as he walked through the living room.

     The place was trashed: bottles of soda, some still fill of the now-sticky liquid, were everywhere, and a huge bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans lay on the floor, its contents covering Ron's trademark shag rug.

     Harry was getting a little nervous. They were Aurors, and Ron was nowhere to be found -- place a mess -- could someone have snuck in --?

     No, he was being unreasonable. Even if someone had snuck in, Ron had a wand. Ron was a fully qualified Auror, for heaven's sake. Even still...

     "Ron?" Harry asked tentatively, starting up the stairs. "Where are you, Weasel Scum?" That last part was perhaps a bit quieter -- Harry couldn't resist a little teasing. Suddenly, Harry heard a distinct grunting from Ron's bedroom. His head suddenly filled with images of Ron in pain, Ron fatally wounded -- he ran up the remaining stairs, shoved open the door -- And there lay Ron, dressed in nothing but boxers and toe socks, attempting to cover his entire head with his small couch pillow.

     "If this is about work, Harry," Ron mumbled, pulling the pillow off of his head, "you can tell Kingsley to fuck off. It ain't gonna be a good day, I can already tell. Trust me, I --”

     "Today is Saturday, Ron," Harry muttered, walking over to the large window and grabbing the long cord.

     "What are you -- argh!" Ron growled, blinking against the harsh light of the sun as Harry yanked the cord down, jerking the curtains apart. "Ow, dammit!"

     "Saturday. Sat-ur-day. We need to be outta here in ten minutes,” Harry replied, opening Ron's dresser with lightning speed and pulling out Ron's dark blue dress robes. "Put these on, and go wash your face. And make it quick, we gotta leave ... it starts at two, I think, and right now it's 1:50 --”

     "What are you on about, Harry?" Ron asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly, ignoring the robes next to him. "If it's Saturday, then I'd like to sleep in a little, please."

     "The thing, Ron, the thingy with the people --”

     "Thingy? What thingy?"

     "You know the thingy at the place, -- um, with Hermione and them."

     "That's today?" Ron exclaimed, eyebrows disappearing into his hair. "Are you sure?"

     "No, it's tomorrow; this is all a big joke -- put on your goddamn clothes!" Harry snarled, and Ron immediately stood up.

     "What time is it?"

     "At the moment? 1:54."

     "Holy fuck! No! No!" Ron darted into the bathroom, taking his clothes with him, and Harry was left in Ron's bedroom, staring at the ceiling and checking his watch.

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     Where are they? Hermione thought to herself, fiddling with her butterbeer nervously. It's was 2:10, and she was starting to get worried. Actually, she'd been worried before that.... worried about whether Ron would remember her, worried about what they'd think of this new Hermione she'd become.... worried that they were still the same, and she was the different one.

     Suddenly, the door to the pub opened, revealing a soaked to the bone girl with bright red hair and large brown eyes. Hermione knew who it was, but her breath was caught in her throat, and it took a moment for her to call out a very croaky, "Ginny?" Ginny's head whipped around, eyes searching the pub for a second before settling on Hermione. For a second, her face stayed blank. Then --

     "HERMIONE!" Ginny squealed, running over to her and throwing herself onto Hermione. "Oh, gosh, it's so good to see you!! How have you been? I'm sorry I'm late, it's pouring out there!"

     "No problem," came Hermione's muffled reply. "I've been -- " (Ginny embarrassedly pulled her wet body away from Hermione's and sat down in a chair opposite her) " -- just fine. Now, tell me, what's happened with you these last six years?"

     "Well, I graduated Hogwarts, I'm working as an Auror now, I just turned twenty-two, I'm single, and I'm looking."

     Hermione chuckled. "I wish I could say the same."

     For a moment, Ginny's eyebrows raised, and Hermione decided that had come out wrong.

    "What I mean to say is -- I miss being single, is all. On the hunt."

Ginny smiled. "Ah, I see. Speaking of which, my brother is late."

     "And what exactly does your brother have anything to do with the price of kneazle ears in Romania?" asked Hermione, though she had an odd feeling in her stomach that she knew exactly what Ginny was implying.

     "Nothing, just ... well, see he's on the hunt, too," said Ginny innocently, fiddling with the wrapper of her firewhiskey.

     "Is he?" asked Hermione, trying to keep her level of interest low. Ron being on the hunt meant nothing to her ... so why was her stomach doing flip flops?

     "Indeed. Hasn't had a single girlfriend yet. Methinks he's waiting for the right girl."

     "I bet," said Hermione, her hand shaking. Her inner torment was constricting her chest. Quickly, she thought of Krum, Krum and his sexy self. Only two weeks ago, when he had proposed, had she been allowed to explore every inch of his gorgeous body ... but they had been denied making love, as Viktor had some serious rules about no sex till they're married. Hermione wished he didn't.

     "Oh, hey, here they are now!" Ginny exclaimed, and Hermione's head shot up to see Harry, looking stunning in emerald robes, and Ronald Weasley, in blue robes that matched his delicious blue eyes, which met hers instantly.

     Hermione's heart was in her throat, and as she clutched her hands together, she felt the diamond ring Viktor had bought her, and she broke eye contact with Ron to look down at it. Her head was spinning as Ginny gave the two soaked men a drum roll entrance.

     "Hermione, hey, good to see you," said Harry happily, grinning at her. "We're really sorry we're late -- nasty habit of Ron's, isn't that right?" Harry nudged Ron, who didn't respond. She could feel his eyes on her -- taking in her differences, Hermione knew. He didn't want to see her anymore. She wasn't Hermione Granger anymore. She was Hermione Krum.

     "I c-can't --” Ron started, and Hermione let her eyes stay focused on the big ring on her finger. "I gotta -- gotta go."

     "What?" said Ginny, a bit drunkenly. "But we just got started!"

     Ron shook his head, and his eyes felt like they were boring a hole into her. Hermione placed her hands on the table, revealing her ring, and he stared at it for a moment. Then there was the squeaking of a chair being pulled out, and Ron was gone.

     Tears leaked out of Hermione's eyes. She had caused this. She was killing him, she knew, but it had to be done. He'd had his goddamn chance. He'd left her alone in the dark when she'd confessed her love to him. He'd refused to stay in contact with her. He didn't deserve to be alive; he'd broken her fucking heart...

     More tears came out. She hated herself, and she wanted to hate him, but she couldn't. She stood up slowly -- Harry said something to her, but it was ignored, and she walked out the back door, into the rain, where she could sit, and think, and cry.