Burning Down the House

Ron reached out to slam a hand on the alarm clock and make it stop its monotonous buzzing. He lay with his face buried in his pillow for a moment before he turned his head and scowled at the alarm clock. Then he remembered the Hogwarts Express would arrive late that afternoon, and the shop would have students queued up outside the door and down the street, buying things for their summer holidays.

He pushed the bedclothes back, and sat up. Hermione was still asleep. He considered and immediately rejected waking her. She was still pale, with bluish smudges under her eyes. She had been that way since Richard's funeral more than a month ago. The last time Ron remembered seeing her look than wan, aside from the year searching for Horcruxes, was in their third year when she used a Time-Turner to get to all her classes. She seemed to sleep a lot these days. He often came home from the shop, and found her sound asleep on the sofa, a book on her chest. She went to bed soon after dinner and he now woke before she did on weekends.

She wasn't eating, either. Mostly she just pushed the food around her plate. He didn't say anything to her, because the look on her face when she pushed the plate away, all but daring Ron to say something, made him keep his mouth shut. Hermione could be tetchy when she was upset about something, and Ron didn't feel like being the target.

Ron sighed and carefully swung out of bed. He rubbed his hands over his face as he ambled into the bathroom. He closed the door with another sigh, and turned on the water. Eggshells, he thought. I'm walking on eggshells. He leaned against the closed bathroom door, wondering if he was going to be able to keep it up much longer.

Not that Hermione was being difficult, really. Quite the opposite.

She was too quiet.

And it was starting to grate on Ron's nerves.

He was used to the sound of Hermione's voice. Ron hadn't realized how much until he realized she wasn't talking much.

Ron shook himself and pushed off the bathroom door. He ducked in and out of the shower, then stood at the sink, with a towel wrapped around his waist, trying to shave without cutting himself. He hung up the towel and quietly walked back into the bedroom, and quickly dressed. It was almost ten, and he had promised George he'd be at the shop at ten. He crouched by Hermione's side of the bed, worry creasing a faint line between his eyebrows. She was sleeping, still.

Hermione had never been one to have a lie-in. Even if she didn't have to be up, she woke up early nonetheless. True, she often would stay in bed, but she usually had some large book propped on her knees. Books that were so dry, Ron felt like it could be a miniature piece of the desert between book covers.

Ron watched her sleep for a few moments. She didn't look like her sleep was restful, as the lines of strain that had appeared last month still etched across her delicate features. Hating to do it, but needing to, Ron ran a fingertip down the side of Hermione's face. 'Mione?' he said softly.

'Ennnnnnnnn,' she grumbled, turning her face away.

'Mione? Come on, can you wake up a little for me?'

Hermione turned her face back around and opened her eyes. Ron's brows knit in a deeper frown. Her brown eyes looked sunken and bruised. 'What?'

'I'm supposed to go in today. We're staying open later for the students coming back on the train for the summer.'

'Okay,' Hermione said listlessly.

Ron bit his lip and ran a hand over her hair. 'Do you want me to stay home, hen?'

Hermione shook her head. 'No, it's all right. I was going to go see Mum later today anyway.'

Ron leaned forward and kissed her cheek, letting his head fall on the pillow next to hers. 'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure.'

Ron reluctantly stood and pulled the bedclothes around her shoulders. 'If you need anything...'

'I know.' Hermione's eyes filled with tears, and she quickly blinked them away.

'I'll be back later,' Ron whispered, as he stooped and gave her a quick kiss.

Hermione's hand reached out for his, and she gratefully squeezed it. 'See you then.' Ron left the bedroom and shortly, Hermione heard the audible pop of Ron's Disapparition. Hermione rolled over and curled into a tight ball around her burning stomach. 'Ugh,' she groaned. She knew she was still reeling from Richard's unexpected death, and on top of it all, she had some sort of bug.

Hermione whimpered softly. She allowed herself, for just a moment, to want her mummy. When Hermione had been ill as a child, Jane would bring her orange juice and ginger tea. Richard read to her. Milton, Shakespeare, Forster, Bronte, Austen, Dante, Eliot... Even a few Americans - Salinger, Harper Lee, Damon Runyon, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Twain. Hermione grinned at the memory of Richard trying to speak in that street-wise dialect of Nathan Detroit and his cronies. The sound of Richard's voice trying to read 'The Idyll of Miss Sarah Brown' echoed through her memory, and she had to use the edge of the sheet to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

Hermione heaved a sigh and forced herself to get up, like she had every day for the past three weeks. She took a shower, and dressed in whatever came to her hand first. It took too much energy to try and make a decision. She twisted her damp hair into a haphazard plait, and pulled on her trainers.

She went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and for once in the last fifteen months, ignored the calendar on the wall. Hermione leaned moodily against the counter, looking out the window into the back garden. The small plot she and Ron had was overflowing. Ron had planted the rosebushes Richard gave them in March. He spent hours out there, she knew. Just sitting in the grass in the shadow of the roses.

Hermione put the glass in the sink. She would wash it later. Ron wouldn't be home until nearly nine anyway. They day the train brought the students back for the summer holiday was always busy at the joke shop, and Ron and George made an extra effort to be open late that day.

She stood in the middle of the sitting room, contemplating her options. Apparate or take the train. Neither one was particularly appealing. And both made her want to retch right now. Hermione made a face and went back into the bedroom to grab her wand from her night table. She snorted when she realized that nearly ten years after the war, she, Ron, and Harry all still slept with their wands within reach. Harry had slept with his under his pillow for nearly a year afterwards.

Hermione went back into the sitting room and turned. When she opened her eyes, she was standing in the back garden of her parents' house next to the shed. The sight and scent of the riot of roses slammed into her senses. Apparating had made her dizzy, and for a moment, Hermione stood still, taking slow deep breaths, in an attempt to regain her equilibrium. Richard would haunt her mercilessly if she vomited in his rosebushes.

Hermione walked into the quiet house. It still didn't feel right to come over and not see Richard up to his elbows in the roses. Jane still played music, but she didn't dance in the kitchen with Richard. Hermione paused in the doorway to the sitting room. His glasses were still lying on the coffee table. If she didn't know any better, Hermione might have thought he had merely forgotten them there.

She heard a soft thump from upstairs, and went upstairs to investigate. Hermione stopped on the landing, confused. The doors to her parents' bedroom and the spare bedroom stood open. 'Mum?'

'I'm in here,' Jane's muffled voice replied.

Hermione followed the sound of her mother's voice into her parents' bedroom. Jane was half inside a cupboard, removing clothing from it. 'What are you doing?' Hermione asked suspiciously.

Jane pulled her head out of the cupboard, and gazed at Hermione, her arms full of jumpers. 'Oh... I'm...' Jane shifted uncomfortably, and left the room, without giving Hermione an answer.

Hermione's eyes narrowed and she followed Jane into the spare room. Jane stood in front of the cupboard, neatly stacking the jumpers in it. She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from the topmost jumper. 'Mum, those are your clothes.'

'Yes, they are,' Jane answered tiredly.

'Why are you moving your clothes in here?'

Jane turned around, and faced Hermione. 'You don't look well,' she said conversationally.

'Don't change the subject, Mum.'

Jane took a few steps towards Hermione. 'Really, Hermione, you don't look very well.'

Hermione tamped down her growing impatience. 'We're not talking about me. Why are you moving your clothes?' she repeated.

Jane closed the cupboard door gently. 'I haven't slept in the other bedroom since the night before your father...' Jane swallowed. 'Died,' she finished nearly inaudibly. 'I just can't...'

Hermione nodded. She remembered what it had been like after Fred died. George refused to even set foot in the flat over the shop for more than a year, and that had been only after she and Ron had moved into it. He wouldn't even sleep in his old room at the Burrow, preferring to sleep in what had been Percy's old room. 'Have you gotten everything?'

Jane's eyes flicked to the open door behind her daughter. 'Yes.'

Hermione walked out of the room, and went to the room where her parents had slept. She flipped the switch and turned the light off. She started to close the door, and stopped. Hermione took one look around the room, and carefully closed the door, as if she would wake someone if she closed the door too loudly.

It seemed to echo deafeningly in her ears.

******

'How's she doing?' George stood in the back room, boxing up Whiz-Bangs.

'Who?' Ron didn't look up from the Daydream Charms he was packaging.

George snorted. 'Who else?'

'Fine.' Ron tried not to squirm as the back of his neck grew warm. Damn it. Always does that when I'm lying, he muttered to himself.

George raised an eyebrow as the back of Ron's neck turned five different shades of red. He refrained from commenting. He knew all too well that "fine" covered a lot of territory. "Fine" meant anything from, "Well, I still sob into my pillow at night, but at least I've stopped looking for him at the dinner table," to "Really, I'm doing all right, just bloody leave me alone, will you?" Besides, George had seen what Hermione looked like at lunch Sunday. She looked better than he had a month after Fred died, but that wasn't saying much. Anybody with eyes could see she wasn't eating. The last time George had seen Hermione that thin was after the battle. He continued to pack a few more boxes, glancing at Ron from the corner of his eye. 'How are you?'

'What?' Ron stopped, his wand hovering above a pile of neatly packed Daydreams.

'How are you?' George repeated.

Ron set his wand down, and noticed his hand was shaking. He had been so busy trying to take care of Hermione and Jane, then just Hermione that he hadn't really stopped to think about it. 'I'm fine,' he said, wincing at how false it sounded.

George snorted. 'It's okay to grieve him, you know.'

'What?'

George sighed. 'Richard. It's okay. Nobody would fault you for it.' George looked down at the fireworks scattered on the table. 'Not me, anyways,' he said softly.

Ron went back to the Daydreams, watching them fly into their packages silently for a moment. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I don't know how I feel.' He Banished the packages to their shelf and began working on a pile of sweets to put in Skiving Snackboxes. He noticed George was watching him. 'Really, George, I'm fine. I guess.'

George went back to his Whiz-Bangs, unconvinced. He didn't say anything, knowing Ron would talk when he had sorted himself out. Ron could brood on something for ages.

Ron cleared his throat. 'I keep imagining. What if it had been Dad? Or Mum? How would I feel? And I can't imagine it. I can't even imagine what she's feeling. I can only guess. And I really don't want to guess what kind of agony she's going through.' Ron shifted his shoulders, feeling like his robes had shrunk. 'I just know that there's this empty space,' he said thickly. 'No disrespect to Mum or Dad,' he added quickly.

'They wouldn't begrudge you this,' George grunted.

'I know.' Ron exhaled through his nose. 'I don't know how to say it, George.'

George nearly flinched at the waves of frustrated helplessness and sorrow radiating from his younger brother. 'You don't have to.' Mimicking Ron's actions after Fred's death, George pulled Ron into a fierce hug. He pulled back slightly, Ron's head cradled between his hands, tilting it so he forced Ron to meet his eyes. 'I am sorry, Ron.'

Tears welled in Ron's eyes and he attempted to blink them back, but he rested his head on George's shoulder and wept, knowing of all people, George would understand.

******

Hermione followed Jane into the back garden. 'Thank Ron for me, will you?' Jane said over her shoulder.

'What for?'

Jane stopped and Hermione nearly collided with her. 'For coming over the past couple of weeks and doing the maintenance on the roses.'

Hermione felt her mouth drop open. 'He has?'

'Once or twice a week, after work.'

Hermione blinked a few times. 'I didn't know,' she said faintly.

Jane pulled a chair into the sunshine. 'You really don't look well, Hermione,' she commented.

'I don't feel very well,' Hermione responded. 'I think I caught something from one of the babies a few Sundays ago,' she continued, waving off her mother's concern. 'And Dad...' She dropped to the grass to sit at her mother's feet, leaning against Jane's knees. 'How are you doing it?'

'Doing what?' Jane's hand rested on the back of Hermione's head.

'Getting up every morning.'

'Hermione, your father lived his life. It would dishonor his memory to not live mine.' Jane's hand began to absently stroke Hermione's tumbled hair. 'It's not been easy, and I hate going to bed alone and that nobody comes into the kitchen to steal my tea while I'm doing my Sunday crossword. And it's so bloody quiet. He was always playing music, or out here talking to those roses. I miss him so much.' She was quiet for a moment. 'But he would hate it if he knew I was maudlin. So I get up, and get dressed, do my crossword in ink, and leave half the tea in my cup. And I just keep breathing.'

Hermione sighed and yawned widely. 'I can barely haul myself out of bed.'

Jane tipped Hermione's chin up, so she could examine her face. 'You look like you haven't been sleeping, darling.'

'But I do,' insisted Hermione. 'Seems like that's all I do lately.'

Jane squinted at her daughter's face. 'Have you seen anyone? A Healer? Is that what you call them?'

'Yes, Mum, and no, I haven't seen one. I'm just tired.' Hermione waved off her mother's concerns.

'How much did you sleep last night?'

'I don't know. I went to bed early -'

'How early?'

Hermione frowned. 'I don't remember. Eight-thirty, nine, maybe. I woke up at ten.'

'That's over twelve hours,' Jane stated flatly. 'Was it just last night?'

'No,' Hermione said guiltily. 'It's been like that for a few weeks.' She wilted under her mother's stern glance. 'If I don't feel better by Monday, I'll try to go next week, I promise.' Hermione sighed, and closed her eyes, letting the sun wash over her skin. 'Mind if I spend the day here? Ron won't be home until late.'

'Of course I don't.' Jane looked down at the top of her daughter's head. 'Anything you want to do in particular?'

'Not really.'

'Just - how does that expression go? - hang out?' Amusement colored Jane's voice.

'Yeah,' Hermione sighed. 'That's exactly it.'

******

By Wednesday, Hermione still wasn't feeling better. The intermittent churning in her stomach wasn't going away. It was getting worse. Remembering her promise to her mother, she went to St. Mungo's that afternoon.

The main welcome witch was just as pleasant as always, and impatiently sent Hermione to Shanti's office.

Less than thirty minutes later, Hermione walked out, and blindly went to the Underground station. She rode to her stop, her unseeing eyes fixed on the window opposite her, automatically getting off when the train reached Bloomsbury. She opened the door to the flat and slowly sat on the edge of the sofa.

It was there that Ron found her when he came home a few hours later.

Ron took one look at her white face, her eyes wide, with a rim of white showing around her dark irises. He knelt in front of her, taking her cold hands between his. 'Mione?'

She blinked, shaking her reverie. She looked at him, with an odd quizzical expression on her face.

The hair on the back of Ron's neck began to prickle uncomfortably. 'Hermione, what's wrong?' he asked calmly as he could.

She merely shook her head.

Ron felt his pulse begin to pound in his ears. His hand gripped hers even more tightly.

Hermione pulled one of her hands from his grasp, and laid it on his cheek.

'It's our turn.'