Hero With A Thousand Faces

HARRY POTTER AND THE HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES

Chapter 6: Fight Club

"The first rule of fight club is: you do not talk about fight club. The second rule of fight club is: you do not talk about fight club." --Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

---

three days later...

---

Ron sat at his writing desk, a roll of parchment unspooled before him, words flowing from his quill in even, neat rows...yet his attention was only half upon what he was doing.

He kept being distracted by another journal. Three of them, in fact. Three thick leather-bound volumes sitting on the side table across the room. For two full days they had sat there, ever since Hermione had dug them out of Harry's trunk and presented them to him. Three volumes full of her writings during a time of great stress, her very personal outpourings. He had been touched by this gesture from them, but he had not yet opened the journals. He had their blessing, but he hadn't the nerve. He wasn't sure he was ready to share her experiences that way, and if he were being totally honest with himself, he was more than a little afraid of what he might read. He could imagine what sorts of things she might have written about, and while he was profoundly honored that she trusted him to read them uncensored, he suspected that her gift of the journals meant more as a gesture than as an invitation to read their contents.

Perhaps in time. In the meanwhile, he had other things to do.

The night he'd met Napoleon, who was well on his way to becoming Ron's new partner in crime, he'd finally resolved to put his tenuous Plan in motion. It was a good Plan, he thought. Smashing, in fact. It was simplicity itself. They couldn't be themselves around him. He couldn't think how to broach the subject, they were clearly stuck in a rut. He needed a way to break the stalemate.

How? Simple: catch them in the act.

Oh, not the act itself. That would be too, too awkward. He needed to catch them in an act, not the act. And so was hatched his Plan. To wit: sneak around the house until he caught them in some moderately naughty embrace and walk right in on them, by accident but on purpose, then act casual as if nothing was out of order, so they would know it didn't bother him.

It sounded so simple on paper. The only objection had been raised by Napoleon, who, upon hearing the Plan, had immediately said "And what d'you do if you catch them and you find out that it does bother you?" Ron had been momentarily at a loss; that wasn't a contingency he'd considered.

"I suppose I'll run away screaming," he'd finally replied.

Napoleon had nodded sagely. "That oughta clear up any awkwardness right quick," he'd said, one dark eyebrow arched nearly into his hairline. This remark had earned Napoleon an apple core thrown at his head. He'd had no other wisdom to offer on the subject.

Ron was confident in his Plan. He was sure it was just the ticket. Break the ice, create a commonly embarrassing moment as a means of bonding over a clearly troublesome topic, something they could laugh about later. Open the door to a meaningful discussion, get each other on equal footing once again. Brilliant.

There was only one problem. He had to catch them first.

He never in his wildest dreams imagined it would be this difficult. Given the purported high level of their ardor for each other coupled with the other housemates' lurid tales of overhearing midnight sessions in the gazebo and walking in on steamy clinches in the library, he'd thought it would be a snap. So far, it wasn't turning out that way.

His first step was to enlist George as a co-conspirator. After some initial doubt about the wisdom of the Plan (George had voiced the now-familiar but oh so unhelpful chorus of "Just talk to them!") he'd been won over in the end, as Ron knew he would be by any Plan which involved sneaking around. George gave him a more detailed tour of the house, pointing out the little nooks and crannies. According to him, Harry and Hermione's favorite make-out spot, apart from their own room, was the second-floor reading room. It was a cozy little chamber at the front of the east wing just across the hallway from Hermione's private study. Unfortunately its out-of-the way location and the fact that it was only accessible from one of the two bedrooms which flanked it made it a difficult room in which to sneak up on someone. There just wasn't anyplace to hide, and it wasn't somewhere you could realistically claim you'd wandered by accident.

The library was more promising. They'd been caught out there more than once, according to George, and it was far more convenient. The large room was mostly two stories tall, except that against the east wall was a partial second floor, essentially a wide balcony which one reached via a spiral iron staircase in one corner. What wasn't as obvious was that this balcony also had its own entrance from the second floor of the house...and this door was right next to Ron's bedroom. Furthermore, the library was just chock full of secluded corners, pieces of large furniture and shadowy bookcases. Sneak up on someone in here? It'd be harder not to.

When he'd felt he was familiar enough with the house to execute his Plan, he'd gotten right to work. He kept himself constantly aware that he was on dangerous ground. He was spying on spies, and he wasn't even exactly sure how to go about it. In the end, his first (and hopefully last) foray into covert surveillance amounted to little more than peeking around corners, listening at closed doors and skulking about in his stockinged feet.

At times he felt more than a little silly. He was, however, perfectly willing to bear a touch of absurdity if it became necessary. In a staggeringly short period of time the Plan became a Mission, and the Mission became his preoccupation. Some part of him wondered if he'd gone completely round the bend, another part whispered that he was acting shamefully, still another part was cackling in mad glee at the sheer childish delight of carrying out a Super Secret Assignment. All he needed was a fake pipe that blew bubbles and a cardboard sword and he'd be set for high adventure in the backyard or perhaps up in a shabby treehouse with a sign on the door that said "Girls: Keep Out!"

For the most part, he tried to keep a level head. One thing was certain: it was a lot harder than he'd thought it would be.

No matter how careful he was or how sneaky he thought he was being, he just couldn't seem to catch them together...at least, not together in any helpful way. Just getting them in the same room at once was enough of a production. They both seemed to work insanely erratic schedules, and their arrangement of alternating days in the office for his "benefit" made the situation even more intractable. They were forever missing each other by five minutes, grabbing quick sandwiches together at the kitchen table and exchanging hurried two-minute conversations in the foyer, one of them taking off a cloak while the other put one on.

"Are things always this hectic around here?" he'd asked Laura one night as they tidied the kitchen after supper.

She'd shrugged. "No, I suppose not. We're all a bit at sixes and sevens, aren't we? I guess it's to be expected. We're trying to get together a wedding for almost four hundred guests, it's no small task."

She was right about that. Since the Night of Admiral Beauregarde, the night he'd hatched his Plan, there had scarcely been a two-hour stretch when someone wasn't going or coming on wedding business. If Hermione was home, she was talking to the caterer, the dressmaker, the outlandish photographer who was so flamboyantly gay that he made Justin look like the Captain of the Royal Guard. If Harry was home he was talking to the charmcaster, the Hogwarts social secretary, the travel wizard. Laura had the other bridesmaids organized into task forces and practically marching in step. Nothing had been said to him yet regarding what role he might play in the wedding. He was curious but didn't want to bring it up himself.

Between all these factors, it had been incredibly difficult sneaking around at all, let alone discovering anyone in a private moment. So far the most interesting thing he'd seen had been Hermione cutting Harry's hair in the winter garden room, which had an easily cleaned tile floor. At first that had seemed promising...he'd seen and read dozens of scenes in which haircuts doubled as foreplay...so he'd watched for a few moments from behind a tall potted tree, but his hopes had proven fruitless. Perhaps it was because real life was sadly lacking in a soulful pop ballad soundtrack to spur the principals into romantic moods, but Harry had just sat there with his arms crossed while Hermione snipped efficiently away at his hair. They had talked nonstop, but their conversation was disappointingly banal. They'd covered the day's activities at work, tomorrow's planned wedding-related tasks, Hermione's aunt Julia's marital problems, Lily's upcoming vet appointment and an amusing story Harry had heard at work involving some agent down in Research and a misplaced bottle of mucilage. By the time they got to this anecdote the haircut was finished and they were just talking, Hermione sitting in a chair facing him, and soon enough they were both laughing uproariously. The scene had made him smile, but it didn't help him. He'd had six years to see them laugh together, talk about their days and tell each other random stories. As he watched them together they seemed just like what they'd always been: best friends.

And therein lay the rub. So much of their behavior was so similar to how he remembered them. Yes, they hugged, but he'd seen them hug before. Yes, she often touched his shoulder as she passed him, but she used to do that all the time, and to Ron himself as well. Yes, they were easy and familiar and clearly very close to each other...but none of this was news to him. He kept being reminded by others of how their relationship was new and different than what he remembered, yet at the same time all he saw was a relationship that was just the same. He saw them every day, and every day he saw the ring on Hermione's finger, but he still had to sometimes remind himself that it had been Harry who'd put it there. It was Harry who loved her, Harry who'd proposed to her, Harry she slept with and Harry she loved in return. He knew it, he knew it was true, he didn't doubt it and yet, somehow, he didn't believe it.

---

After he'd been in the house for a little over a week, five days into his Plan, Ron's complacency was abruptly shattered by an event which would come to be known inside his head as The Incident.

The evening started innocently enough. Most of the household was in the study, which was a frequent gathering place. Harry was at his desk, Justin was sprawled on the floor with a magazine. George was sitting near the fireplace with a new broom prototype across his knees, examining the materials with a magnifying glass. Cho was not at home, nor was Hermione. Ron found himself on the sofa next to Laura as she showed him some photos of the renovations they'd done to Bailicroft, though he was only able to devote about three-fourths of his attention to them...the rest of it was taken up with her sheer proximity.

Laura was beginning to be more and more of a distraction, in fact. His attention tended to wander when she was around. He wondered if he was attracted to her. It had been so long since he'd experienced such a sensation that he wasn't sure he was accurately assessing his own state. She was very pretty, lithe and exotic, her waist-length black-brown hair thick and dense like lamb's wool. To make matters worse, she was funny and warm and pleasant to be around. They hadn't really taken any time to get to know one another since their first meeting, and he suspected the show-and-tell this evening was an attempt on her part to spend a little time with him. He welcomed the opportunity, although he had no notion of her as a romantic possibility. He couldn't even fathom trying to actually date someone when he was not even two weeks back amongst the living, and from all accounts she was quite irrevocably spoken for. End of story.

But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy her company here on the sofa, so he listened with interest as she talked about the mansion and the rooms and the repairs. Her stories were interesting enough that when the door banged open and Hermione entered with jarring abruptness, he was annoyed at the interruption.

His pique quickly turned to alarm when he saw Hermione's face; she was nearly purple with rage. He had seen her angry plenty of times, but never this furious. She was holding a crumpled sheaf of papers and still dressed in her cloak...more alarming was that from the moment she entered, her hostile gaze was fixed on her fiance. "Harry!" she said, her voice harsh and demanding.

Everyone in the room snapped to attention at her tone. Harry blinked, an unmistakable expression of dismay crossing his features. "What?" he said, in the befuddled and apprehensive tone of a man who knows he's in deep trouble but has no idea what he's done.

Hermione walked quickly and decisively over to his desk. "We need to talk," she said, her lips tight.

"All right, let's go out to..."

"No. Right here. The others ought to hear this."

Ron was becoming more alarmed by the moment. She was so cold and angry; it was upsetting to see her direct it at Harry, whom she supposedly loved and to whom Ron had never heard her speak harshly. "What's going on?" Harry said, frowning.

She walked back and forth a few steps in either direction, then stopped and spoke, addressing the entire room as well as Harry. "I had lunch with Neville today and he said that interest rates were dropping again, so I went to the bank to see about possibly refinancing our mortgage on the house. The loan officer and I were going through the old paperwork and he had to reopen some of the files because he was new and unfamiliar with our terms." She paused for effect. Ron could see that Harry had grown silent and still, he clearly knew what she was about to say. "Guys, remember that great deal we got on this place? Because it was in such bad repair and haunted, supposedly? Well, it turns out the deal we got wasn't originally so great. This house wasn't cheap because it was in bad shape, it was cheap because Harry paid half the original asking price as a down payment, then let us finance the rest without telling us."

The other housemates were looking at each other in surprise and puzzlement. George stood up. "Harry? Is this true?"

He nodded. "Yes, it's true." He looked around at their faces. "Look, I saw how much everyone loved this house. We all had such great ideas for how we could fix it up and make it beautiful and we have! We could never have afforded what they were asking, so I just went quietly to the banker and struck a deal. I wanted all of you to have it."

Justin was on his feet now; for the first time since Ron's arrival, he wasn't brimming with cheer. "Gosh, thanks ever so much, Harry," he said sarcastically. "We didn't ask for your charity."

"Charity? I was trying to help!"

"Maybe," Laura said, "but you could have done it without making us feel about three inches tall. And you could have told us! We could have talked about it!"

Harry was now becoming angry. "I don't understand what I did that was so terrible!" he said. "All I did was..."

"All you did was give yourself more of a claim to this house than the rest of us," Hermione said. "We were supposed to be equal partners in owning this place! This makes you a...majority shareholder! You have a greater claim of ownership, you paid for half the original price plus one-sixth of the rest of it! You could boot us all out if you wanted to!"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"That isn't the point, it's just that it's not how it was supposed to be! And you knew we'd never agree to let you pay so much yourself, or you wouldn't have done it secretly!" Hermione shook the papers she was holding...mortgage papers, presumably...in his face. "You know how this makes us feel, Harry?" she exclaimed. "Like little impotent children who can't make their own way...or as if that's how you see us."

He leaned forward, speaking more directly to her. "This is not about you."

"Yes, it is!" she yelled. "I thought we didn't have any more secrets from each other! You swore up and down you'd told me everything, you said you..."

All at once Harry slammed his fist down on his desk, startling everyone. "Don't get on your high horse of honesty with me," he said, his own fury beginning to show. The rest of the housemates, Ron included, had ceased to matter. They were now witnessing what had become a private fight. "You can scream about secrets all you want but we both know damned well you're keeping a few of your own!"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Where do you go when you're not in your office and my Bubble can't find you?" he said, his voice suddenly rushing as if he'd been waiting to ask her this for a long time. "It happens at least once a week!"

She looked stunned. "You think your division's the only one that has regular private staff meetings?" she said. "Of course we shut off our Bubbles, you do it too!"

"That doesn't explain it!"

"What are you accusing me of?"

"You tell me."

"Oh, you want to play it like that? Then I've a few questions of my own! What exactly happened between you and Allegra last summer before Florence?"

Harry looked as if she'd slapped him. "I told you everything that happened."

"You said you did. How can I trust what you told me about anything when you lie to me about a stupid mortgage? I know you're still attracted to her. I know she's sexy and seductive and mysterious and lots of other things I'm not. Maybe the evil only makes it more exciting, more forbidden!"

Harry's expression was icy. "I think you ought to shut up before you say something you'll regret."

"The only thing I regret is actually believing you when you said you had no more secrets from me! I won't make that mistake again, let me tell you!"

"You know, you're taking this awfully personally! I can't believe you're this worked up over a down payment! Must have hit a nerve! Maybe you've something on your conscience! Maybe you shut off your Bubble so you can go muck about with Lloyd Llewellyn!"

She gasped audibly, flinching back from his words as if they struck her physically. "How dare you?" she cried, very near tears now, her hands clenched into fists. "How dare you make such an insulting, disgusting accusation? God, I can hardly stand to look at you!"

"Then maybe you should just leave!" he roared. "You're good at that, aren't you? Had plenty of practice in turning your back on me and leaving! Go on, take another sabbatical!"

They stared at each other for an endless, agonizing moment until Hermione's lower lip began to tremble and she turned around and ran from the room. Everyone stayed still and silent, too shocked to move. Harry just stood there for a few beats, then went back to his desk. He made a show of arranging and fiddling with papers and books for a moment, his face twitching. He picked up a heavy volume, threw it back down on the desk with a bang, then stalked out, one hand going to his forehead as he did. Ron heard a door slam from somewhere else in the house, then the back door out to the verandah open and slam shut.

"Blimey," Laura muttered. George and Justin wandered out, both of them oddly subdued, leaving Ron sitting on the couch with Laura.

He was so thrown off by the confrontation he'd just witnessed he could scarcely wrap his mind around it. He wouldn't have been surprised to see them fight...everyone did, after all...except that it had been so raw, so personal. They seemed to be drawing on old arguments long past, ongoing issues unresolved. He had the disturbing feeling of watching them act based on a backstory of which he had only sketchy knowledge. This fight obviously had roots in their shared history, which was still largely a mystery to him.

He didn't know how to react, so he went on instinct. He stood up and began to follow where Hermione had gone, only to feel Laura's hand on his arm. "Don't," she said, quietly.

"I want to see if Hermione's all right."

"She'll be all right. Leave her alone for now."

Ron started off in the other direction, after Harry, but Laura's arm was back again. "Best not," she said.

"I've got to do something!" he said.

"Why? This is none of your business, or mine."

He thumped back onto the sofa. "Does that happen often?" he finally asked.

"What, a fight? No, not that often. They fight on occasion, of course they do...but honestly, I've never seen them fight like that."

He hesitated a moment, then stood again. "I've got to talk to them."

Laura yanked him back down again. "I told you, leave it go. It's none of your affair."

"The hell it isn't! They're my two best friends, I ought to..."

"Leave them to themselves, that's what you ought to do. They're your friends, and that's all you know them to be. You don't know them as a couple. I do. I'm telling you, it's better if you don't interfere. Let them work it out."

"How do you know they will?"

"They will, they always do. You'll only make it worse if you try to play peacemaker. Trust me."

"And why should I trust you?" he said, his voice rising. Her superior tone was beginning to grate on him. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway? Some sort of expert? If an expert existed on these two particular individuals it was himself, not her.

She put down the photo book and faced him, some annoyance now showing on her face as well. "Because I've lived with them for four years and I've watched them go through every stage together! I've been with them when they were friends, when they were lovers, when they were together and when they weren't!"

"I'm their best friend, no one knows them better than I do," Ron said.

"You know who they were, Ron. You don't have the first clue about who they are. If you did, you wouldn't have to sneak around the house trying to catch them together."

This statement startled him. He'd had no idea anyone was aware of his Plan except for George and Napoleon. "What the heck do you know about it?" he said, his ire rising to cover his embarrassment at being caught out by her.

"More than you think. Hey, it's none of my business. If you want to act like an teenager and make a fool of yourself playing I Spy and skulking about in socks then I'm in no position to judge, but don't then try and pass yourself off as a relationship expert just because the three of you used to play Exploding Snap in the Gryffindor common room!"

He gaped. "That's a hell of a thing to say!"

"I'm sorry, it's the best I can do."

"I've been in prison for half my life! If I'm a little behind the times it's hardly my fault!"

"I didn't say it was. It's perfectly understandable and there's no shame in it. What's shameful is when you refuse to acknowledge it and try to act as if nothing's changed!"

"I'm not the one acting like nothing's changed, they are! Why can't they be themselves around me?"

"Why can't you talk to them about this in an adult manner?" she countered, her face reddening.

"You said you weren't in a position to judge."

"I lied. I'm judging and I think it's stupid. Look, I'm sorry you had to spend all that time in prison, but you're out now and you're not making things any easier by playing silly games!"

"We've gotten a bit off track here, haven't we?"

"I don't think so. There are two very upset people in this house right now...aside from us, that is...whom we both care about. The difference between us is that I respect them as adults with their own relationship to each other that has nothing to do with me. You're still hanging on to the idea that you know them in a way that isn't possible anymore, and instead of accepting and acknowledging who they are now you're picking fights with me over who knows them the best!" She stood up and threw down the photo book. "And you might want to ask yourself why you're focusing on them so much instead of dealing with yourself! Not everything in the universe revolves around them, you know...including your life. You ought to get one of your own soon instead of tromping about over theirs." She stormed out, her hair bouncing as she went, leaving Ron fuming behind her.

---

Harry sat out in the gazebo for several hours, taking slow and measured breaths. He sat very still and quiet, until his legs went to sleep and his back began to stiffen up. He cried a little at first, dashing the tears from his eyes as soon as they welled up, embarrassed and hurt and still mad and terrified all at once.

In his mind he heard again and again the echoes of the things they'd said, the awful things she'd said, the equally awful things he'd said in return. He was horrified at himself, and at her. How could he have accused her of infidelity? He could scarcely believe it.

But she accused you first, a voice whispered to him. That didn't matter. She had more grounds for accusation than he did. He had, by his own admission, kissed Allegra. At the time he'd told Hermione about the incident she had seemed to understand, but perhaps it had disturbed her more than she had let him see. He knew his own nagging fears that she might find someone else attractive had no real basis in anything other than his own insecurity and his dread of someday losing her. Lloyd Llewellyn had been blatantly interested in her, but she had never really returned his attentions.

And then he had to go throw off that sabbatical remark. They'd never get past that if it kept getting brought up. He'd gone to great pains to reassure her that he bore no lingering resentment over her desertion, pains which were all for naught now that he'd used it as a weapon in a stupid fight. And over what? The goddamned mortgage.

Except that wasn't what upset her. It was the lie that upset her, not the money. She wouldn't have cared if only he'd told her long ago, if he'd told them all. What had stopped him? He wasn't sure, and he wasn't in much of a mood to examine his own motives too closely at this moment. Even granted his lie of omission, she had seemed inordinately angry about it. He couldn't help but think it had struck some sort of nerve. No, he told himself. Don't start speculating. That way lies madness and nights on the couch.

The sky grew orange and purple and a chill crept into the air as the sun set. Harry looked up at the Cloister windows, where lights were burning. He tried to spot her there but couldn't make out any distinct shapes from this distance.

Come on, old chap, he said to himself. Be a man, make the first move.

He stood up and headed back to the house, a black cloud hovering over his head. "I hate being a man," he grumbled under his breath.

---

Harry slowly pushed open the door to the Cloister, looking around, unsure if she'd even be in here...but she was. Hermione sat curled up in a ball on one of the window seats, hugging a pillow to her chest, her favorite quilt around her shoulders. She didn't look up as he entered, or when he crossed the room and sat down gingerly on the edge of the cushion, maintaining a minimum safe distance.

For a few moments he just stared at his hands, unable to think where to start. Eventually he decided he'd better start with the most important thing. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

She turned her head and looked at him; he saw that her face was wet with tears. "Me too," she whispered.

"I can't believe I..."

"Shh," she said, holding up a finger to cut him off. "Don't. Let's not relive it. I'm sorry, you're sorry, the rest can wait until after."

He frowned. "After what?"

She smiled a little, then rose to her feet. She walked slowly to the side of the bed and turned to face him, signaling with her eyes that he should let her take the lead.

He watched as she opened the buttons on her shirt and eased it off her shoulders with deliberate movements. Her eyes never left his as she removed her bra and let it fall; she stood there naked to the waist, then she cut her eyes away and turned her head, averting her face and baring her throat...then she stopped and waited.

Her message was so clear that he could almost hear her voice speaking into his mind. You said things that hurt me, she was saying. Because of what you did I said things that hurt to say. And yet I will offer myself to you and I will welcome you still. I am vulnerable to you because I choose to be, and if you want to hurt me again you could do so and I will allow it because I love you...but I believe that you will not hurt me because I trust you.

Harry stood a few feet away and looked at the smooth, pale lines of her body, the spindle shadows lying in the cords of her neck where the lamplight spilled over her shoulders, and he was moved. He picked up the quilt she'd discarded and came to stand before her, her head still turned away from him. He wrapped the quilt about her shoulders to cover her nakedness, then cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face up so she was looking at him. He waited until she'd had a chance to see and understand, then he kissed her, long and slow. He felt her hands creep quietly to his waist, but he made no further entreaties upon her person.

They drew a few inches apart. Hermione looked up at him shyly. "Do you think..." She cleared her throat and continued in a sturdier voice. "Do you think we could just skip right to the make-up sex, and do the actual making up later?"

He wanted to agree to this immediately, but discretion made him hesitate. "Don't you think the actual making up is more important than the make-up sex?" he asked. "We...said some things we ought to talk about."

"Yes. And we will talk about it. But what I want first is you. I want to feel that you still want me. I want to feel close to you again and I want you to show me that we can have an awful fight and still love each other." She looked away. "That probably sounds so childish."

"No," he whispered. "It's exactly what I wanted to say but didn't have the guts."

She moved away and turned down the bed. They undressed quickly and quietly, not assisting each other. Hermione was already halfway there so it didn't take her as long; she lay under the covers and watched him as he shed the rest of his clothes. Harry had long ago stopped feeling any self-consciousness at being naked in front of her, but for some reason he felt a tiny twinge tonight as he stripped down to what she had once called The Full Potter. He stood there for a moment until it passed, prompting her to raise one eyebrow.

"Showing off?"

He flushed and joined her underneath the covers. "Nothing you haven't seen before," he murmured. She didn't respond; it seemed she was all business tonight. He didn't question her attitude, it was one he shared. He was so anxious and still on edge that it felt like they just had to get this out of the way. They usually spent considerable energy on foreplay; all that went out the window by mutual agreement. The sheets had scarcely begun to grow warm beneath him before she was pulling him on top of her and he was easing her hips into place.

For all the plaudits ladled upon make-up sex, Harry would later muse, theirs on this night was unsatisfyingly quick and perfunctory. Within five minutes it was over and he was lying against her with his head cradled in the hollow of her shoulder. Tension spread outwards from their bodies and flowed towards the edges of their bed, a space that was nearly sacred to him. How many hours had they passed in this bed together? Some of that time had been spent engaged in the two primary uses of a bed, namely sleeping and having sex, but that was just the beginning. How many heart-to-heart talks sitting up against the headboard with the sheets pooling in their laps, how many comfortably silent hours side by side, their respective noses stuck in their respective books? How many hours spent comforting each other in sadness, how many intense discussions that sometimes did and sometimes did not turn into arguments? How many tickle fights, how many breakfasts in bed, how many nightmares, how many three a.m. summons from work? All the times he'd woken up feeling the pleasant weight of her arm draped across him, all the times he'd had to shake her awake in the morning, all the times he'd heard her say his name in the darkness. All of it in this bed. They were profaning their own temple by lying here like this, fresh from the nastiest fight they'd ever had, their pulses still racing from profoundly futile avoidance sex. If the point of this had been to reassure each other, it was a failed experiment.

He was beginning to think he might have to get up and away from the bed when something happened, a gesture so simple and unschooled that it had to be sincere. Hermione raised one hand and began to slowly stroke his hair. He could feel her fingernails scratching lightly over his scalp as she combed through it with slow, even sweeps of her hand. He felt himself relaxing as she touched him, her fingers pausing to trace the half-circle outline of his ear. He took a deep breath and pulled her closer, then inched upwards on the mattress until they were face to face.

He cupped the back of her neck and kissed her lightly, then again when he sensed an invitation to do so. Even though she didn't actually move, he could feel her reaching out to him, so he did it again. She curled her fingers in his hair and kissed back, sighing into his mouth.

He wasn't sure how long they lay there kissing each other, all he knew was that it felt very, very good. It was a liberating experience just to kiss for the sake of the act itself, without any expectation. Just to enjoy the softness of her lips against his and to touch each other for no other reason than because they could and they wanted to. A kiss might just be a kiss in the rest of the world, but when you were naked in bed with your chosen partner in life an intimate kiss was usually the first step on a well-traveled path leading you to what Napoleon would have called "a good shag." It felt a little odd but very comforting to kiss without looking down that path with one eye and wondering what route you'd take this time.

They kissed for a long time. Neither of them tried to go any further, nor did they discuss it. He knew what was going through his own thoughts, and he also knew that she was feeling what he was feeling. He knew it because he could feel how she was moving, how she was responding. For a long time no one made a sound. Then, as Harry was placing a series of gentle, slow kisses along her jawline, he heard her exhale a long breath and whisper "my Harry." The words were so quiet he almost missed them, and since neither of them acknowledged the phrase he was fairly sure she was unaware she'd spoken aloud. It was an uncharacteristically precious thing for her to say but all the same it fit this moment. I'm her Harry, he thought, the notion making him feel warm all over. I've always been her Harry and no one else's. When I was with Allegra, or Ginny, or Ronin...I was still hers, and they all knew it. Her Harry.

Finally, after a lengthy interval of kissing, they drew back and lay there looking at each other. She sighed, a contented sound. "Why didn't we do that first?" she said.

He smiled. "You were so anxious to get to the make-up sex."

"I'm sure I don't know why. The sex was hardly worth the trouble, but that...that felt so wonderful, just to kiss you."

"I agree." He traced the outlines of her features with one fingertip, looking steadily into her eyes. "Tell me you're not actually jealous of Allegra."

She sighed again, but a sigh of frustration. "I wish I could tell you that."

"You know that...you don't think..."

"No, no. I don't really think you did anything with her, any more than you actually think I've done anything with Lloyd Llewellyn." He nodded ruefully. "It was like all my awful nightmarish fears came bubbling up and suddenly popped out of my mouth on their own." She shrugged. "You're a human being, Harry. You've got to be at least physically attracted to Allegra."

He blew air through his teeth. "I can look at her and see that she curves in the correct places and can actually carry off a black vinyl catsuit, but...I guess there's some primitive caveman part of me that's attracted. But I'm not a caveman and I know what she is. I'm not attracted to her."

Hermione rolled onto her back, staring up at the glass ceiling with her wavy hair spread on the pillow around her. "I hate her," she said in a thin, choked voice. "Sometimes I'm scared of how much I hate her. For all the universal reasons everyone else has to hate her, but also for others that are just my own reasons. I hate her because she hurt me, and Ron, but mostly because she hurt you. I hate that she made you feel something about her and I hate that she ever got to lie here in my spot, next to you in bed. I didn't know I was capable of hating someone as much as I hate her. I thought I was above all that, that I was one of the good guys and that good guys didn't hate like this. Then I hate her even more because she made me feel something I didn't want to and it's an endless cycle of my hating her and then hating myself and hating her more because she made me hate myself and it gets rather ridiculous." She turned her head and looked into his eyes; he saw a slight shine in hers. "Most of all I...I hate it that you were ever hers."

He shook his head. "I wasn't hers," he said. "I was always yours." She smiled, a little shaky, and he hugged her tightly until he felt the anxiety leave her body. She turned around so her back was to his chest and they snuggled close together under the pleasantly heavy covers. "I'm sorry I never told you about the mortgage," he said.

"Well, we all know now," she said. "But it wasn't about the mortgage, not really."

"Oh, I know."

"Another secret you didn't tell me." She hesitated. "Tell you what. I'm just going to stop asking if you've told me all your secrets, okay? That'll spare you from having to lie and tell me that you have. If you've got anything else you want me to know, you just tell me in your own time. I'll do the same. How does that sound?"

"Honestly? It sounds like a stopgap measure."

"It might be. Harry, if there's a theme to the issues we have between us, it's secrecy and honesty. Right?"

"Yes."

"I think we've reached the point now where we may have to just agree that we can't possibly know all each other's secrets, and that if we keep something to ourselves, well...there's a damned good reason."

"I don't like it. Our definitions of a damned good reason may differ."

"Then I guess we'll have to trust each other. And we'll have to redefine what that means, for us."

He leaned over her; she rolled onto her back so she could look up at him. "We've said over and over that we trust each other with our lives," he said. "That isn't good enough. We'll have to be able to trust each other with our feelings."

She smiled. "It's like I told Ron. You ought to write greeting cards."

"Then my first one would read 'I'm sorry I said those awful things to you. Forgive me?'"

She sobered. "If you'll forgive me for the awful things I said."

"Deal." He kissed her again.

Hermione pulled away, a familiar and welcome glint coming into her eyes. "Care to give that make-up sex another go-around? Get it right this time?"

Harry's response, as all the best replies to such questions tend to be, was nonverbal.

---

The rest of the household was sitting at dinner, not talking much. Two empty chairs were a constant reminder of the unpleasant scene they'd witnessed. Even Cho, who'd missed the whole thing, was unusually quiet, sensing the tension...tension that wasn't just between their two absent housemates.

Ron knew that the others had to be asking themselves why he and Laura were studiously ignoring each other. Somehow they'd ended up seated side by side, which made it worse. Ron had expected their quarrel to fade away, but as the hours passed his own resentment only grew. Where does she get off? She doesn't even know me!

He suspected that Laura was lashing out at him because she felt threatened. She'd been Hermione's best friend, and one of Harry's. His presence might seem to push her out a little. That had to be it. People said and did all sorts of nutty things when they felt threatened.

He'd abandoned the Plan for the evening. For the first time since his arrival, he was not at all curious about what his friends were up to.

"Well, this is a good sign," Justin said cheerfully, breaking the long silence.

"What is?" Ron asked.

"They didn't come down for dinner, despite the incentive offered by the enticing aroma of George's famous Death By Meatloaf. That probably means they're off somewhere making up, possibly shagging each other senseless and competing to see who can apologize the most."

"I hope you're right," George said. "I hate this."

Cho sighed. "Yeah, it's never fun when Mummy and Daddy fight." She looked around at their bemused expressions. "Oh, come off it. We're all acting like little kids cowering in the corner because they heard their parents yelling at each other. Hey, I'm not casting stones. I feel the same way."

"I wonder why that should be," Laura said.

"Because we look up to them," Justin said, causing everyone to stare at him in wonder at the seriousness of his tone. He stared at his plate, cutting up his food as he spoke. "They're our heroes, and everyone else's, too. They protect us, they fight to keep us safe, and we turn to them when we feel lost." Silence greeted his words, the silence of undeniability. "Everyone wishes they had a relationship like theirs," Justin went on, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. "When it's threatened, we feel threatened. It's like finding out that all that green grass on the other side of the fence is just weeds."

No one spoke after Justin had said his piece. The clink of silverware was the only sound. Ron pondered Justin's words. He'd had little contact with the rest of the wizarding world, which suited him fine. He knew that this was only because his family and friends were actively shielding him from it, and he also knew that his own story had been the hot topic since the news of his non-death had broken. Even still, he'd sensed the attitude that inspired Justin's words and he knew without needing to see the papers that just about anything Harry and Hermione did was news. He could scarcely imagine what the furor had been like when they'd announced their engagement...and then again when they'd separated for a time.

Footsteps on the stairs interrupted his reverie, and in a moment everyone looked around as Harry entered the room, Hermione close behind him, pinning up her hair as she walked in. He felt the entire table sag slightly in relief, because although they weren't touching each other nor did they give any outward signal, it was immediately apparent that they had, in fact, made up. They were both smiling and their postures were relaxed. "It's awful quiet down here," Harry said. "Did George make up a batch of Hagrid's rock cakes or something?"

Hermione hurried to the table. "Ooh, Death By Meatloaf, my favorite!"

"Made it just for you, luv. Extra mushrooms."

They took their seats at the table. As if a switch had been thrown, everyone was suddenly alive with conversation...although carefully, no one brought up this afternoon's unpleasantness. Ron tried to catch Laura's eye, half-hoping they might take the hint and effect their own reconciliation, but when he finally succeeded her expression turned frosty and she looked away at once. Fine, he thought. Be that way. No skin off my nose.

---

The Plan - Field Notes

---

Tuesday 7 October 2008
5:30 pm, GMT

Targets are observed walking together on the rear terrace. Observer follows at a discreet distance, taking cover behind furniture and trees. Targets enter the forested area near the creek. Observer pursues, closing the distance until conversation can be discerned. Targets appear to be discussing quarrel which occurred on Monday 6 October. Observer sneaks closer. Distracted by dialogue, Observer splashes into creek, soaking trousers to the knee. Targets stop and turn, hearing the splash. Observer cuts and runs. Invectives are muttered. Observer curses self and evident stupidity thereof.

Tuesday 7 October 2008
9:12 pm, GMT

Observer quietly enters partial second floor of library balcony, engaged in reconnaissance. Maintaining cover of shadow, observer surveys the lower portions of the room. Observer notes presence of Target B (white female) engaged in perusal of bookshelves. Target A (white male) is not in evidence. Observer considers absenting self from premises when Adversary C (white female), whose presence was not previously noted by the Observer due to effective camouflage, loudly addresses the Observer, rendering further attempt at concealment impossible. Target B hails the Observer, expressing surprise at the discovery therein. Observer feigns amicable felicitude and joins Target B in the main portion of the library. Adversary C offers a sarcastic aside, to which the Observer responds with a nonverbal expression of dissatisfaction at her interference.

Wednesday 8 October 2008
12:45 pm, GMT

Observer monitors from inside partially open library doorway as Target A takes his leave after a brief return to the house for lunch. Targets converse in the foyer as Target A prepares himself for departure. Distance precludes any record of dialogue exchange, but based on contextual clues and body language the Observer discerns that the topics under discussion concern plans underway for pending nuptials. As Target A's departure is imminent, the Observer can see a possibility of achieving his Objective in the form of the exchange of a physical token of affection before separation. As Target A dons his outerwear and appears to reach towards Target B, Target B is hailed by Adversary C from the kitchen. Target B excuses herself as Target A is retrieving his briefcase; she offers a verbal apology and expresses a hope to see Target A at a later time. Target A concurs and departs. The Observer follows Target B's progress into the kitchen and then discerns that Adversary C, still visible in the doorway, is aware of his presence and his monitoring of the preceding scene, as evidenced by her raised eyebrow and scornful expression aimed in the Observer's general direction. The Observer excuses himself from the library, voicing in sub-vocal tones reservations regarding the marital status of Adversary C's parents.

Thursday 9 October 2008
7:00 pm, GMT

The Observer, having had no measurable success through his existing strategy, adopts a new methodology for the achievement of the Objective. Through careful arrangement of the study's furniture, the Observer is able to seat himself in a high-backed wingchair facing into a far corner, rendering himself all but invisible to the rest of the room, but from which he may observe the entire room by virtue of the reflections in a window and a glass-fronted bookcase, both of which are immediately in front of him. The Observer assumes observational attitude and waits for an opportunity to monitor the Targets to present itself.

Over the Observer's three-hour tenure he is unable to acquire visual contact with either Target A or Target B. He observes Neutral D (white male) engaged in musical experimentation at the piano for 36 minutes. He observes Neutral E (Asian female) composing owl post for 17 minutes. He observes Ally F (white male) enter and exit several times over the course of ten minutes, evidently engaged in a search and rescue operation involving one-half of a pair of gloves. For the last 77 minutes of his occupation of the study, the Observer observes nothing at all, as he has fallen into an unconscious state.

The Observer is abruptly recalled to active observational status by the loud voice of Adversary C, whose head is visible via reflection in the window before him as she takes note of his position. Upon query to explain her presence, Adversary C expresses exaggerated regret at the Observer's former state of insensibility and informs him of the recent presence in the study of Targets A and B, who had been of late upon the nearby sofa engaged in various lewd acts which should not be described in official documentation. The Observer is at first confused, but is quickly sensible of Adversary C's fabrication of such an observation, whereupon he attempts to excuse himself. Adversary C blocks his egress and demands a full accounting of the Observer's attempted observation of Targets A and B for the current duty rotation. The Observer reminds Adversary C that the requested information is on a strict need-to-know basis. Adversary C challenges this policy.

Vociferous debate ensues.

Friday 10 October 2008
8:32 pm, GMT

The Observer spends an enjoyable evening in the company of Targets A and B, engaged in extemporaneous discourses on a variety of topics. The Observer reminds himself several times of the Objective, but fears that his resolve is faltering in the face of his abject failure thus far. The Observer questions the moral justification of his Objective, but reassures himself that success cannot be far in his future. Evidencing gestures of fatigue, the Observer excuses himself and proceeds up the main staircase, secreting himself inside a cupboard from which he may observe the Targets' own progression. After checking the immediate vicinity for the insidious presence of Adversary C, the Observer settles down to wait and observe the Targets.

After a short elapsed time the Targets are heard upon the stairs, conversing in low voices. They enter the second-floor living gallery, talking in genial fashion of shared memories and hopeful plans. They stop in the center of the living gallery and Target A turns Target B around to face him. The Observer increases his attentiveness. Target A expresses appreciation for Target B's appearance this evening; Target B thanks him and smiles. Target A raises one hand to touch Target B's face and begins to lean closer.

The Targets are interrupted by the arrival of a large snowy owl bearing an owl post. The Observer is briefly distracted when he forgets that the striking of one's head against a wall is meant to be symbolic of frustration and not actually physically injurious. The Targets discuss the newly arrived owl post, whereupon Target A hurries back down the stairs. Target B appears concerned; after a moment she continues on her course to her bedroom.

---

"Is it necessary that you leave right this second?" Hermione said, watching Harry pack an overnight bag in the Cloister. She perched on the edge of the bed, trying to act casual.

"I'm afraid it is," Harry said, his voice distracted. She knew that in his head he was already half-gone. "It's a hostage situation and it's deteriorating rapidly. I'm on the call list for emergency hostage recovery task force, I have to go."

She sighed. "All right, I'll resist the impulse to pout."

He stopped and smiled at her. "I appreciate it."

"But still...oh Harry, we're all supposed to go up to Arthur and Molly's vacation house in Devonshire tomorrow morning! Big family fun weekend, for Ron!"

"I'm afraid you'll have to have the big family fun without me."

"Won't be the same."

"I can't help it, darling, I'm sorry."

She made a face. "Wish I'd gotten called in, too. Then at least we could go together."

He raised an eyebrow. "Not much call for surveillance when the guy's already bottled up inside a house."

"I know, I know. Still." She sighed. "When will you be back?"

"Sunday afternoon."

She was surprised at the directness of his answer, she'd expected an "I don't know." "Really, Sunday afternoon? How can you be so sure?"

"Because, even in a worst-case scenario, you're only allowed to spend twenty-four hours on the HRTF at a stretch. Any longer and the anti-curse charms start affecting your concentration. Tonight they'll brief me then they'll make me sleep. I'll start tomorrow morning. If the situation isn't resolved I'll still be pulled off the team Sunday morning, then debriefed. So I'll be home Sunday afternoon at the latest. Possibly sooner. I'll get word to you if it's sooner."

Hermione nodded, watching him shut his bag and hating it, all of it. This wasn't the first time he'd been called away and it wouldn't be the last. Sometimes it was her that was called away. She hated it every single time. "Be careful, okay?"

He smiled, shrugging into his field cloak. "I will." He picked up his case and crossed to the bed to kiss her. "I'll see you Sunday."

Hermione rose to watch him go. At the doorway he hesitated, then put down his case and returned to draw her close and kiss her again, more thoroughly. "Good luck," she whispered against his shoulder. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"I'll be waiting when you get back."

He picked up his case where he'd left it. "Now there's a reason to get back quickly," he said, winking at her as he shut the door behind him.

---

Ron had finally given up and gone to his room when Harry came looking for him, bag in hand. "Called off somewhere?" he asked him.

"Afraid so. I'm awful sorry, mate, but I'll have to miss out on the weekend."

"Think nothing of it. The world needs you at its beck and call, I suppose. Flash the old Batsignal in the sky and off you go." Harry just smiled vaguely, looking puzzled. "Oh, I guess you don't know about the Batsignal. Never you mind. Just watch yourself."

"I will. Say hello to everyone for me, and send my regrets."

"Will do, mate." Harry smiled and left, seeming a trifle distracted, for which Ron was sure he could be easily forgiven, considering the circumstances.

He waited until he heard the front door close behind Harry, then he got up and climbed the stairs to the Cloister door. He knocked softly. "Hermione?"

"Come in, Ron," he heard her say. He entered their room, fighting down that sense that he was trespassing. She was sitting in one of the window seats in her pajamas, brushing her hair. Ron crossed the room to sit across from her.

"I just saw Harry," he said.

Hermione nodded, forcing a smile. "I'm sorry he'll miss the big weekend getaway," she said.

"When's he back, then?"

She sighed, looking down at her hairbrush. "Sunday afternoon." She fidgeted a bit. "D'you think your parents would mind if I came home from Devonshire on Sunday, instead of coming home on Monday with the rest of you?"

"No, of course not."

"I'd just like to be here when he gets back. It's also been awhile since we had any time to ourselves."

"It'll be good for you. You'll have the house to yourselves until Monday, I'm sure you could use some peace and quiet after all this turmoil."

She reached out and grasped his hand. "We don't mind the turmoil."

Ron looked down at their linked fingers. "You worry when he's away, don't you?"

She chuckled quietly. "I worry all the time, Ron. When he's away, when he's not away, when he's standing right next to me. I worry in a draining, neverending cycle that I'll never tell him about. It's just a fact of life. To care for Harry is to worry about him all the time. Comes with the territory. But look who I'm talking to...you know all about it."

"He worries about you in the same way, you know."

"I know. And yes, it's worse when he goes away. He's just gone to help handle a dangerous situation. Granted, not as dangerous as some, but it's plenty dangerous enough." She sighed. "He'll be all right, he always is."

Ron squeezed her hand. "Will you be able to sleep?"

She smiled. "Of course. Don't make too much of this. It's far from the first time he's gone away, it certainly will not be the last. I'm...accustomed to it."

"Well, you'll have the antics of the whole wacky Weasley clan to help take your mind off it...plus Cho, Justin and Laura, that is."

Hermione looked at him for a moment, thoughtful. "Is there anything wrong with you and Laura? Did you have a row or something?"

He cleared his throat. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I've just sensed some...uh, tension."

"I guess we're still just getting to know one another."

Hermione held his gaze for a moment. "Uh-huh," she said, sounding dubious. "Well, maybe you can talk to her this weekend."

"Yeah, uh...sure. Maybe."

---

"Where the bloody hell do you think you're going?" Laura exclaimed.

Ron jumped back, startled by her sudden appearance. So much for slipping away unnoticed, he thought. The dooryard of his parents' vacation house was deserted, everyone else had gone down to the lake save Hermione, who had left earlier that morning for Bailicroft. "What are you doing?" he hissed at her.

"I'll ask the questions here!" she said.

"Keep your voice down, everyone'll wonder what's up!"

"Oh, what do you care? They'll know you've gone anyway. You know, I thought that this Plan of yours had turned into an obsession but I had no idea it had gone over into total mania!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he managed, although he didn't know who he thought he was fooling. Sneaking out in the middle of Sunday morning without telling anyone was hardly an innocent activity.

"You're going back to Bailicroft, aren't you? Harry's supposed to come home this afternoon and you're going to sneak back in and try to catch them out!"

"Nice deduction there, Sherlock."

"How are you going to get there? You can't Apparate!"

"I'm borrowing George's car."

"You don't know how to drive!"

"I do so, Napoleon taught me last week."

"So what, you're just going to show up?"

He stepped away from the car and stood before her, feeling all at once that it was vital she understand this. "Look. This is my big chance. He's coming home after being away on some assignment. They'll think they're alone in the house! This could all be over by tonight!"

She shook her head, amazed. "You've lost all sense of perspective. You're willing to rob them of the first private time they've had in weeks just so you can get over some weird mental block you've got!"

"This isn't about me, it's about the three of us. Once I show myself we'll finally be able to talk about this, open up! They've got to know it's okay for them to be themselves in front of me."

"You're the one with the problem, Ron. You ought to solve it yourself without dragging your friends through the mud. It's all so...so sordid. You're just going to wait for them to get in the right mood and then bust in on them?"

"Not quite so vaudeville, but essentially correct." He tossed his bag into the back seat of George's car.

"How will you stay out of sight until then? And they'll see the car!"

"I'll park it in the grove outside the gates and walk to the house...and I have this," he said, reaching into his cloak pocket and withdrawing a handful of silvery material.

Laura gaped at him. "You stole his Invisibility cloak?"

"Borrowed! Borrowed! Look, he won't mind my using it for a good cause."

She just blinked, her mouth opening and closing a few times. "There are so many things wrong with that sentence I hardly know where to start."

"Then don't, just let me get on with it."

"Ron, wait...think this through. How will you explain that you're even there at all? You're supposed to be up here with us until tomorrow morning!"

"I'll just say I wanted to pop back and see Harry briefly and then go visit Ginny in London, since she and Draco couldn't make it up here."

"Then they'll wonder why you felt the need to park all the way outside the gates!"

"I'll say I took the Knight Bus."

She looked like she wanted to raise another objection but none sprung to her lips. Finally she sagged. "Well, you certainly seem to have thought of everything."

"Go join the others, it's too nice a day to stand about shouting."

"Believe me, the last place I want to be right now is standing in the yard arguing with you."

"Then what are you still doing here? Go away and mind your own business!"

She shook her head sadly. "All right, Ron. You win. You do what you have to do. But if you succeed...well, Harry and Hermione might learn a little more about you than you do about them." She turned and stomped off around the back of the house. Ron didn't waste another moment. He climbed into George's car and started up the engine. Just stick to the Plan, he told himself. It'll all be over soon.

---

By the time Ron parked George's car outside the Bailicroft gates and hiked up to the house, shielded by Harry's cloak, it was past noon and the sun was shining brightly. He moved quickly, sticking close to the trees that lined the drive. The Invisibility cloak kept you from being seen, but it did not keep you from casting a shadow, so one had to be careful when using it outdoors.

He went around the rear of the house to the verandah, glancing in the many windows as he went. He didn't see Hermione anywhere, though he knew she was in the house...he'd seen her cloak hanging on its peg through the windows next to the front door. His objective was a narrow door that opened onto the hallway which ran between the kitchen and dining room. It was tucked away and had a window in its upper half, so he could be sure he was unobserved upon entry.

He quietly slipped inside and walked into the central gallery, the winter garden room sitting sunken into the hardwood floor before him like a gleaming prism. He stopped and cocked his head, listening for any activity. He heard nothing.

After making his way through the house Ron finally found Hermione reading in the second floor den, which, ironically, was right across the east hallway from his own room. He stood in the doorway for a moment and watched her, tucked into one corner of the battered leather sofa dressed in leggings and a jumper. She looked so casual and unguarded, her glasses perched on her nose and her hair drawn into a wispy ponytail, knees pulled up and a copy of "Rebecca" held up in front of her face. A mug of tea and a half-eaten sandwich were on the table next to her.

Ron smiled a little, feeling sorely tempted to throw off the cloak and plop right down next to her for a nice chat or perhaps to read a book of his own, but he kept his Plan in mind. Harry would be home soon...all he had to do was stay out of sight until then.

---

Ron sat in a comfortable lounge chair in the parlor, facing out through the open double doors into the foyer where he'd have an unobstructed view of Harry's return, whenever it occurred. Soon after arriving here he'd decided that it would be somewhat, well, creepy to just follow Hermione around the house, so he'd let her alone and parked himself in this lookout post. He'd only gotten up once in the late afternoon when he'd heard movement upstairs.

He'd snuck quietly up to the second floor living gallery in time to see Hermione emerging from the Cloister staircase, changed into jeans and a silk blouse, her hair combed. She wants to look nice for Harry when he gets back, Ron thought. That's so...sweet. He watched her go into the kitchen, then resumed his seat in the study.

He sat there, trying not to move too much, just to be on the safe side. It felt distinctly strange to be here in the house with a woman who believed herself alone. It had felt even stranger to stand near her and have her ignore him completely. He'd half-believed that she'd somehow instinctively sense his presence even with the Cloak and start talking to him, but so far she hadn't made a sound.

He was determined. This was his best chance yet. It could all end right here. He could achieve his Objective and things could go back to the way they used to be, with the three of them totally at ease and withholding nothing from each other. He wouldn't screw this one up. He was a man on a mission.

Looking back later, he thought it was probably inevitable that he'd fall asleep while waiting.

In fact, he didn't even realize he'd done so until he was woken by the sound of the front door shutting. He blinked and stood up quickly, keeping the presence of mind to make sure the cloak was securely around him. He heard voices but saw no one. He went to the parlor door just in time to see Harry start up the stairs, bag in hand. Hermione was heading to the kitchen. "Put your things away, I'll make you some tea," she was saying.

Ron gritted his teeth in frustration. Unbelievable! He'd missed it! Harry had walked in the front door and presumably greeted Hermione in some affectionate manner and he'd fallen asleep and bloody missed everything.

Maybe it isn't too late, he thought. She's bringing him some tea...if I act quickly I might still salvage things. After a moment of agonized indecision he turned and jogged up the stairs, his trainers making no sound on the marble treads.

He emerged once again into the living gallery, which was empty. He hesitated, unsure where to head next. He was reluctant to go up the Cloister stairs; they were narrow, as was the hallway at the top which led to the room itself...if he met Harry coming the other way he'd bump right into him. On the other hand, he might not come out at all, Hermione might simply join him. Maybe he should go up into their room now. But then again, did he really want to get stuck in their bedroom with them? That would take his Plan to a whole new level of voyeurism that even he was uncomfortable with.

As he stood there vacillating, the decision was abruptly made for him. Harry emerged from the Cloister staircase, looking tired and wrung out. He turned around and went through the doorway right next to the stairs, which led to the east wing of the house. Ron hurried to follow him. He couldn't believe his luck when Harry went into the conservatory.

It was an unusual room, dictated by the architecture of the house. The North Tower was only an enclosed tower on the third floor, where the Cloister was. On the first two floors it only existed as a semi-circular bump-out on the north wall of the house, giving the two rooms below it, namely the conservatory and the dining room, unusual shapes. On the second floor, the half-circle portion of the tower was actually taken up by an ornate balcony tiled in an elaborate mosaic and ringed with stone columns which supported the tower above. This balcony was accessible through the conservatory, a comfortably elegant room which the housemates sometimes used as a sort of conversation parlor.

Harry's choice of this room was fortunate for Ron because it shared an unusual architectural feature with a number of other rooms in this house...it had windows which looked in from the hallway. This meant that Ron could watch his Targets without having to enter the room, which would make it a lot easier to pick his moment to burst in on them as per the Plan.

He stood at one of the windows, watching Harry, who was just standing by the French doors looking out past the balcony to the backyard. His shoulders were slightly slumped and his clothes looked rumpled and slept-in.

Ron heard footsteps behind him. Hermione went right by him and into the conservatory, carrying a tray bearing two mugs of tea. She set it on the table and offered one of the mugs to Harry. He took it but didn't drink the tea, just stood there holding the mug and staring at it. Hermione perched on the back of a nearby sofa, watching him. "Would you like to tell me what happened?" she finally asked.

Harry sighed and turned from the window. "You know who it was? The guy holding the hostages, I mean?"

"Who?"

"Doug Tolan."

Hermione gasped; the name clearly had meaning for her although it had none for Ron. "Oh god," she said. "What happened to him?"

Harry just shook his head. "I don't know. Last I knew he was still a regulator somewhere in Finland. Seems like at some point he just went round the bend."

"You think he had help getting around that bend?"

He shrugged, the hopeless shrug of a man who doesn't want to think about it anymore. "Maybe. All I know is he barged into this innocent family's house up in Darbyshire. A couple and their three young kids."

Hermione put down her mug. "What was he asking for?"

Harry's eyes were confused, uncomprehending. "That's just it. He wasn't asking for anything. He didn't make any demands or ask for ransom. He just sealed himself inside with them and kept threatening to kill them. I got there and everyone was stumped. He wouldn't talk. No one could get through the sealing charms he put up around the house...that's why they called me, actually."

"You couldn't get through, either?"

"I tried. I tried breaking through, I tried talking to him...he wouldn't talk. I sat on that front porch talking into a window for hours. No answer. I could hear him raving and the kids crying and the parents begging Doug to let their children go and..." He trailed off, swallowing hard. Ron already knew that this situation had not ended well. Harry was very upset, and if he'd managed to save everyone he wouldn't have been.

Hermione rose and stood next to him, her face gentle and understanding. "What happened?"

Harry sighed. "Doug was yelling about how he was going to kill one of them, and it sounded like this time he was really going to do it. The man was pleading with Doug to kill him, and let his wife and children live." He hesitated. "I decided to try one more time to break into the house while Doug was occupied with the family. I shut my eyes and tried to summon up every last drop of Mage magic I could muster, but...before I could try anything there was all this horrible screaming from inside the house, and the charms fell down on their own." He met Hermione's eyes. "I ran inside to find that Doug had killed two of the children and then himself."

Hermione gasped, her hands going to her mouth. "Oh, Harry. I'm so sorry."

"It was horrible," Harry whispered, staring into space, the scene he was remembering probably replaying itself in front of him. "The parents were crying and holding their dead children...and the one that lived, the oldest one, was beating on Doug's body. A little boy of about ten, I think. Just hitting him over and over again with his little fists..." He trailed off and sighed again, a shuddery, breathy exhalation. "I wasn't fast enough."

"You did everything you could," Hermione said softly, stroking his arm with one hand. "You did your best."

"My best wasn't good enough to save those children, or Doug."

Ron watched his friend's face, feeling lower than a slug. This was the sort of thing Harry had to deal with in his life, and what was he doing with his time? Running about plotting stupid schemes. Laura's right, he thought. I have lost all perspective.

In the conservatory Hermione reached out and drew Harry close. "Come here," she said quietly. "It's all right, you're home now, it's over. Put it out of your mind." Harry bowed his head down on her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her; she stroked his hair and whispered reassurances in his ear. Ron watched them, fascinated, his shame of only a few moments ago rapidly fading as his Objective loomed before him. He was struck by their involvement in the embrace; it transcended mere body parts and reached some level of exuded intimacy that had nothing to do with physical contact and everything to do with invisible connections. He could see Harry beginning to relax in her arms, as if he were recharging himself through her touch.

Hermione drew back and touched his face gently, smiling. "I'm glad you're home," she said.

He smiled back. "So am I."

The first time they kissed, Ron felt a small voyeuristic thrill, but it was over quickly. The second time they kissed, he felt a surge of triumph at the success of his Plan. Hah! Gotcha! he thought. The third and final time they kissed, really settling into it, he couldn't believe his luck.

His sense of victory, however, was short lived. After a few seconds, Ron suddenly received abrupt confirmation of a life lesson he'd first heard voiced by Mr. Spock, namely that the having was often less satisfying than the wanting.

It also became very quickly clear that it was a far different thing to watch two people kiss when they knew they could be observed than to watch them when they believed themselves alone. He had seen (or thought he had seen) passionate kisses before, but as he stood there watching his two best friends blow his preconceptions to smithereens he realized that all of them had been either totally fictionalized or bestowed with some degree of restraint due to the presence of other people.

He stood there with his mouth hanging open, stunned. Some part of him knew he ought to look away but he couldn't help himself, it was just too...too...something. His brain circled around the correct word before landing on it with a thump. It was...impolite. An impolite kiss, not meant for public consumption. This was not like the more proper, courteous kisses he'd seen exchanged between Ginny and Draco, Justin and Stephen, Sirius and Cordelia, even his own parents.

No. This was a home-alone, locked-bedroom-door, full-body, head-rolling, face-gnawing, arse-grabbing, pelvis-grinding, hair-tangling, arm-clutching, breath-gasping, clothes-pulling, needy, moaning, impolite act of unselfconscious abandon. And that wasn't even the point. What struck Ron the most was not the fact that they were kissing like this, it was the way they were doing it, with the kind of total comfort that comes only with familiarity. It was absolutely clear that they had done this many, many times and were completely at ease with it. No hesitance, no awkwardness, no tiny glances to make sure this was okay, that no one was being too forward. It was unnecessary. They were a couple, and for the first time, Ron saw it with perfect clarity. They knew how to touch each other. It was the ultimate proof of the reality of their relationship...finally.

Now's my chance, he told himself. Here's where I walk in and act casual. Last step of the Plan. Come on, you can do it. Buck up.

He reached out and put his hand on the doorknob, keeping an eye on his Targets through the window. Just as he was about to open the door he saw them pause; Harry drew back a little and cupped Hermione's face in one hand, his thumb stroking her cheek. "I love you," he said in a quiet, sincere tone. "So much."

"I love you, too," she whispered back, her fingers combing through his untidy hair. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes falling shut. She sighed. "Only another month."

"I can't wait." He smiled down at her. "Mrs. Potter."

She arched one eyebrow. "Mr. Granger."

He chuckled and drew her close again, and they continued where they'd left off. Ron sighed, his heart aching with a longing of his own that had nothing to do with his friends. Lucky bastards, he thought. He looked again at his hand on the doorknob.

After a long moment of hesitation, Ron Weasley let go of the doorknob, turned and walked away as fast as his legs could carry him.

---

His own bedroom was far too close to the conservatory, so Ron holed up in the game room on the first floor. He wasn't worried about being discovered, he knew that in all likelihood when Harry and Hermione finished...whatever...they'd probably have dinner and then spend their evening either in the study or the rear living room.

He sat in a leather armchair with a book open and ignored on his lap, pondering his own obtuseness. I should have listened to Laura, he thought, chagrined at the idea. What was I thinking? Walk in on them, indeed.

The problem was that he knew what he'd been thinking. He'd been thinking only of himself. He'd spent a long time alone, and considering the needs and feelings of others was a skill which had been allowed to atrophy through disuse...in fact, his imprisonment had forced him to give his own needs top priority. He'd had to aggressively take care of himself and his own feelings, to keep his sanity. He could admit it. Until now he'd really only been thinking about Harry and Hermione in terms of how they affected him. He might have paid lip service to their separateness but he hadn't really believed it.

So what had just changed? Well, he'd witnessed with visceral intensity the true nature of their relationship to each other, but that wasn't the whole story. He'd seen them interact with each other and talk to each other and it had been achingly clear that he himself was nowhere in their thoughts. He feared that his imprisonment had also made him hopelessly self-centered, believing in the back of his mind, like a child, that everything was about him. Clearly it wasn't. He did not doubt that he was an important part of their lives and that they did think about him a great deal, but his subconscious illusion had been shattered. Their lives were, first and foremost, about each other.

So where do I fit in, then?

---

Hours later, Ron found them in the rear living room sitting together on the deep plush sofa. He opened the door just a crack and peeked in, scoping out the situation. Harry was trying to pay attention to a remote Apparition of a Quidditch match, but his face was grim and distracted. Probably still thinking about the dreadful outcome of his hostage situation, Ron thought. Poor guy. Hermione was sitting tucked close to his side, her nose in a book, her legs curled beneath her. One of Harry's arms rested casually across her legs, his hand cupping her knee. They looked so cozy, and they gave off an air of togetherness even though they were occupied with different activities.

Ron took a deep breath and walked right in, not bothering to announce himself. They both looked up with surprised expressions. To his dismay, their first instinctive reaction was to move a little bit apart on the sofa. He held up his hands. "No, don't do that. Please. Just stay where you are, okay?"

They exchanged a puzzled glance. "Ron, what are you doing here?" Harry said, frowning. "I thought you were up at the house with..."

"I was. I came back a bit early."

Hermione smiled. "Well...that's nice! We didn't know you..."

Ron held up a hand again, cutting her off. "No. Don't say a word yet. Just let me explain." He shut his eyes for a moment, then plunged ahead, speaking rapidly but distinctly. "Okay. For some reason you guys aren't acting normally around me. I mean, really! You're supposed to be all in love and stuff and until today I'd never even seen you kiss, or hold hands, or anything! It's bloody ridiculous! George and Laura and everyone all said that it's usually just the opposite, that you can't keep your hands off each other! So it must be me, I figure. You must not want me to see it. Meanwhile I keep hearing all about your Big Relationship and I just can't get my brain around it. I know it's true, everyone says so, but I'll be hanged if I can see it. All I see is two best friends, 'cause that's just how you act. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know how to bring it up, so I came up with a Plan. I started spying on you. Sneaking around, hiding out, you know. I figured I'd catch you out in the middle of a good snog and then walk in on you, and then I'd act all nonchalant just so's you'd know it was okay to do that stuff in front of me. Then I thought we could talk about it." He took a deep breath. "But it was bloody hard! I could never catch you together! Honestly, I think Laura and Sorry get more time together than you guys! So when Hermione stayed behind for this weekend I saw my chance. I snuck back just before noon. I hid out in the house and I saw you a little while ago in the conservatory, talking...and stuff. But I didn't count on what seeing you together would feel like. I realized I was being stupid, and disrespectful, and immature, and loads of other things I'd rather not be. I saw how you were together, and I really understood for the first time that it's special and powerful and it's...it's real. I felt so ashamed that I'd been treating it like some sort of carnival prize to be hunted down. So I'm sorry for how I've acted. Now can we please talk about this like adults?" He stopped speaking. Harry and Hermione sat there on the sofa with blank expressions. "Oh, and I almost forgot," he added quickly. "I nicked your Invisibility cloak, Harry. I put it back in your cupboard."

They exchanged an amazed look. Hermione just shook her head, apparently at a loss. Harry sighed. "Well," he finally said. "That's...quite a lot of information to get all at once." He cleared his throat. "You say you've been...spying on us?"

"Yeah, that's right, yeah."

"But why didn't you just ask us about..."

Hermione put her hand on Harry's arm. "Don't," she said. "We're just as much to blame for this."

Harry nodded. "I suppose we are." He looked up at Ron. "Sit down, Ron. You're right, we ought to talk about this like adults." Ron took a seat before them. "You're also right that we haven't been exactly ourselves lately."

"Why?" Ron asked. "Why did you think you had to hide from me?"

"Well, we agreed that it'd be a good idea to, uh, exercise a little restraint around you." Harry harrumphed again, uncomfortable with the topic. He looked to Hermione for help.

She jumped in. "We knew that everything here would be new and strange for you, we didn't want to make it worse. We wanted to seem familiar, and we were worried that you'd be uncomfortable. We knew that it was a shock when you found out about us, and I guess we didn't want to rub your nose in it all the time."

Harry was nodding. "We decided that you shouldn't see it until you'd had some time to get used to the idea."

Ron looked from one to the other, their faces so full of well-meaning earnestness that he had to laugh out loud. "Oh, that's bloody priceless."

"What is?"

"You say you didn't want me to see it until I got used to it? The problem is that I couldn't get used to it until I saw it."

They stared at him for a few seconds, bemused. Hermione looked at Harry, then reached over and laced her fingers through his. "Darling, is it possible we're the biggest morons on the planet?" she asked matter-of-factly.

Harry just nodded. "It's possible, although we ought to consider that this planet does include Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Hmm. Good point." She smiled at Ron. "We're sorry, Ron. We assumed things about you, you assumed things about us...and as Napoleon always says, assumption is the mother of all fuckups, if you'll pardon the expression. This has just been one giant miscommunication from the word 'go.'"

Ron had to agree. "We used to communicate so well, the three of us. What happened?"

"What happened is that twelve years went by and a lot of things changed," Harry said. "We've been trying to go on as if nothing had changed, we tried to pretend it was the same. It's not the same. That doesn't mean it's worse or better, it's just...different." He sighed. "Hard as it is to say, I think all this makes it clear that ...well, things just can't be like they used to be." Hermione nodded.

Ron smiled, chuckling at Harry's grave tone. "But...that isn't necessarily a bad thing. Look, my life's got nowhere to go but up. I've just been rescued from a lifetime of imprisonment! I get out to learn that you two have found something extraordinary in each other. I want to be a part of that, and I can't wait to see what I'm gonna find. Yeah, so it's not like before when we were hanging about in the common room. So, it'll be better! We're honest-to-goodness grownups now. Think how brilliant it'll be to be friends now that we don't have to worry about getting caught out by Filch!"

He watched the answering smiles dawn on their faces. "Gosh, Ron," Harry said. "When'd you get to be so much smarter than us?"

"Oh, you know...spent the last twelve years studying while you all were wasting time saving the world and snogging each other, apparently."

They all laughed this time. "So we're agreed," Harry finally said. "As of now. No awkwardness, no phoniness. Just being ourselves. Right?"

"Right," Hermione said, nodding.

"Too right," Ron said.

Harry grinned. "Then I know just how to start."

"How's that?"

"With you saying you'll be my best man."

Ron's mouth dropped open and for a moment he just sat there, stunned, as Harry and Hermione beamed at him. "You...want me to stand up with you?"

"Of course I do, you silly sot. Who else?"

"But I thought Sirius..."

"We've asked him to perform the ceremony instead." Harry reached out and clasped Ron's hand. "Honestly, Ron. How can I get married without my best friend by my side?"

Ron felt his eyes fill with tears and blinked a few times, rapidly. "Gosh, Harry," he said. "I...I'd be honored."

"There's more," Hermione said, leaning forward to take Ron's other hand in hers. "You'll stand up with Harry, but...Ron, I'd like to ask if you'll give me away."

On top of Harry's request this was almost too much for Ron's tenuous emotional control. He bit his lower lip to stop it quivering. "What? If I'll do what?"

"Walk me down the aisle."

"What about your father?"

"It'll be both of you. You can give me away, then stand up with Harry. We've discussed this, Ron, and we both want you involved, on both our sides."

Ron shook his head. "I don't know what to say."

"Will you?"

"What? Of course I will! I'm just...I...well, words fail me!"

They both grinned, squeezing his hands and, Ron saw, each other's as well. Here it was at last, that complete circle he'd waited for in vain in his hospital room. Hermione sniffed and blinked back tears of her own. "In a way, this wedding is about you, too," she said. "You'll be such an important part of our marriage. You ought to be involved as much as possible."

Ron sighed, feeling warm and slushy inside. "Thanks." He looked at Harry and grinned. "So, where are we going for the honeymoon?"

Hermione laughed, but Harry just fixed him with a menacing stare. "Don't even joke about that, Weasley."

"Oh no, the Potter Death Glare. I'm quaking."

They laughed again, the easy laughter of comfort. Hermione calmed herself and looked from one to the other. "You know, I think it's time Ron learned something else about us," she said to Harry.

He frowned. "What? With all this spying, don't you think he knows too much already?"

"Hear, hear," Ron said.

She jumped up, pulling Harry to his feet. "Come on. You too, Ron. It's time for full disclosure."

---

Ron shook his head. "I'll never learn this, it's hopeless."

"Oh, it is not. You're doing fine," Harry said, standing off to the side. "Try it again."

Ron held onto Hermione's right hand with his left. "I get lost in the middle. What is it again?"

"It's eight beats. Step step triple step," Harry said, clapping his hands to demonstrate. "Then back again."

"But I swivel on which beats?"

Hermione laughed. "You don't swivel, I swivel on the first two steps. You just step."

"Oh, I see! I'm supposed to just step while you get to have all the fun swiveling! That hardly seems fair."

Harry shrugged. "Curse of being a man, Ron. Your job is to make her look good. Go ahead, try again."

Ron stumbled through the basic again, Hermione all but dragging him through the turn in the middle. By the end of two basics all three of them were giggling madly. Ron threw up his hands. "Show me again," he said. Harry stepped into his place and took Hermione's hand; they tossed off three basics in a row at about double the speed Ron had been attempting.

"Watch this now," Harry said, starting a fourth basic. "In the middle if I want to go into a turn, I tuck in like this, then spin her out," he went on, twirling Hermione twice under his arm and then somehow ending up back at the first beat. "And then you go right on."

Ron shook his head. "You make it look so easy."

"Well, this is easy for us," Hermione said. "These are the basic steps."

They had led him, puzzled, into the ballroom from the living room, whereupon they had told him the astonishing news that their favorite hobby was dancing. He had been dumbfounded, especially at Harry...this was the chap, after all, whom Parvati Patil had practically been forced to drag around the dance floor at the Yule Ball their fourth year. All doubts had vanished, however, as soon as they put on some music and demonstrated what they meant. He'd watched them dance, astonished at their skill. He'd sat there through several songs, grinning like an idiot and clapping madly, until they'd finally hauled him up and made him try it himself.

"Not so basic for me," Ron grumbled. "Can't you use magic to teach me?"

"Oh no, that's against the rules," Harry said. "No magic on the dance floor. That would be cheating."

"You used it once," Hermione said.

"I had to, you could have been hurt."

"Hurt?" Ron said, frowning.

"We were in the middle of this competition down in London," Harry said, "but whoever prepared the venue didn't know what they were doing. All the competitors were complaining about the floor. It was too slick and hard. Well, we were in the finals and we were doing this really hard release move, basically I'd just thrown Hermione across my back and over my head. Then I slipped and almost fell backwards. I didn't, but I would have missed catching her. It was just a reflex. She'd have fallen if I hadn't used a spot of magic. I don't think anyone noticed. All Muggles, of course. And it happened pretty fast."

"Competitions, huh?" Ron said. "You guys used to compete at this?"

"Yeah, all the time," Hermione said. "We've got loads of trophies. In fact we've been talking about going back into it."

"You should! You're bloody brilliant, both of you! I've seen loads of competitions on the telly, and as far as I can see the only difference between you and them is a few pounds of stage makeup and some sequins!"

Hermione laughed. "Oh, not professional ballroom competitions. Just the club circuit, swing dance-offs, that sort of thing. We wouldn't make it with the real pros, I'm afraid! We're nowhere near versatile enough."

Harry was pawing through a large box of CDs. "But we are trying to broaden our horizons a bit. Learn some new stuff."

"Like what?"

"We started learning Latin dances about a year ago. We're getting pretty good, except it's hard to get the tone right."

"It's different, is it?"

"Loads," Harry said, returning to the middle of the room. "Swing is all about lock, lean and bounce. Latin is about roll, swivel and spin. It's like learning new body language. When you swing dance the feeling you want to convey is that you're free of gravity, that if you don't hold on to your partner you might fly off into the sky. With Latin you need to feel grounded and connected, like you're magnetically attracted to the floor and every time your feet leave it it's a grand event."

"Plus, swing is innocent and fun-loving," Hermione said, taking Harry's hand and turning him to face her. "Latin is all about sex."

"Quite," he replied, smirking. He drew Hermione against him and Ron grinned as they began to tango across the room. Eventually he went over and started up some music for them, then sat back to watch. The music was too fast for tango and they switched over to...well, Ron didn't know the name for whatever it was they were doing, but it was fast, it was sexy, and he was loving it. He tapped his feet and cheered as they whirled around the floor. They were talking to each other as they danced, correcting each other's mistakes, laughing at near-misses...but they held each other's eyes, a noticeable aura of oneness surrounding them.

This activity suits them, Ron thought. Harry's so physical and Hermione's so intellectual, this is something that's both. And they look so good doing it.

It didn't escape his notice that this was yet another thing he'd learned about them that would by necessity exclude him and relegate him once again to the role of observer...but that, he was learning, was a role he preferred.

---

Ron didn't make it back to his room until well past three a.m. After a few more dances they'd gone back to the living room and consumed several bottles of George's homemade plum wine and an entire treacle tart. The talk had flowed like water, real talk now, full of emotions and details and honesty. He heard better versions of stories he already knew and some stories that were new to him. He'd even been treated to an impromptu re-enactment of their first kiss, though the effect had been somewhat spoiled when Harry went into an odd Clark Gable impersonation at a particularly dramatic moment.

They'd lounged about on the large pit sofa and lolled on the floor, exchanging places and migrating around the room like a three-person slumber party, tossing pillows at each other and recalling old in-jokes while making new ones at the same time.

For Ron, the best part had been to watch his friends while the three of them talked. The enforced edict of distance had been lifted, and he felt like he was really seeing them at last. There was scarcely a time when they were not touching in some fashion. If they were sitting next to each other, their hands were linked. If Harry was lying down, his head was on her stomach. If she was reclining, her legs were across his lap. When one of them was speaking, Ron would frequently catch the other looking at them with undisguised affection in their eyes. He lost count of the quick, casual kisses they shared, almost seeming to do so without realizing it.

When they finally parted company for the night Ron felt better than he had since his arrival. That sense of floating through the world without touching it had gone. He'd been allowed back into their lives, and now all that remained was for him to figure out the shape of his own...but one thing at a time.

He changed into his pajamas, feeling contented. As he crossed to his desk his eyes fell once again on Hermione's journals, sitting there in judgment on the end table. He stood there for a long moment, just looking at their silent leather covers.

The decision was surprisingly easy. Ron went to his reading corner and sat down, picking up the first journal. He took a deep breath and opened it to the first page. It was dated November 29th, 2007...four days after Harry's disappearance, he thought. Hermione's even copperplate handwriting covered the page. He saw that the entries took the form of letters to the absent Harry, their words addressed directly to him.

"Dear Harry," the first entry began, "It's been four days now, and you are gone. We can't pretend anymore that it's temporary, or that there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation. You're simply gone, and there's nothing I can do about it. How do I deal with this, Harry? You've got to help me. How do I go about my business, speak to people, eat meals and sleep in our bed? How do I do anything when the man I love has vanished off the face of the earth? Every minute that passes I think that I can't possibly live another minute without you, and then I do...but all that gets me is yet another minute I have to live through. I'm numb, I feel coated in a sheet of ice from head to foot. I tell everyone how determined I am to find you, I put on a good show, but honestly...I wish with all my heart that I could just curl up into a little ball in bed and not speak or open my eyes until you come back and tell me it's all right to breathe again."

Ron looked up from the journal, his chest tight with the emotion that blazed off the page with every stroke of Hermione's quill.

He took a few breaths, and kept on reading.

---