Metamorphome

Chapter Twelve: The Valentine's Day Episode

It was February ninth, ten in the morning. Hermione was writing in her calendar over some cereal while Morrigan was reading about hags in Iceland. Unprompted, Hermione said, "Valentine's Day is next week, on the fourteenth."

Morrigan looked up at her. "What's Valentine's Day?"

Hermione sighed and put her spoon back in the bowl. "Valentine's Day is basically a consumer's holiday--it's an excuse to buy chocolates, cards, stuffed animals, and any other clutter that will fill up your storage for years, on the basis of 'love.'"

"That's rather unlike you," Morrigan commented dryly. "What is it about this one that's making you so cynical?"

Hermione sighed again, this time more dramatically. "It's Ron. I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to spend Valentine's Day together. It's not like we have some big tradition or anything. It's just...nice...to spend Valentine's Day with a boy. And since Ron's my boyfriend--well, I think so, anyway--it just seems that I should be spending it with him. I just don't think that's possible this year."

"Why not?" Morrigan asked with a frown.

"He hasn't replied to any of my owls, and I tried asking Harry about it, but Harry flat out refused to speak about me and Ron. Apparently he's sick of being in the middle of our disputes."

"Do you argue often?" Morrigan asked, surprised.

"Yes," Hermione told her glumly. "This isn't even the worse. But I did tell him that I would pick someone I barely know over him, and we've been friends for a little under a decade."

Morrigan winced and Hermione regretted telling her this little snippet.

"Anyway," she continued, "I'm not looking forward to a lonely Valentine's Day this year."

"It'll work out," Morrigan said, reaching across the table to pat Hermione compassionately on the hand.

"I sure as hell hope so," Hermione grunted and went back to writing plans on her calendar.

Morrigan felt a little guilty. If it weren't for her, this wouldn't be a problem. She didn't really have the means to make it up to Hermione, especially since every plan she'd had to date had been lousy. Still, she kept thinking about what on earth she could do. As she thought, the seeds of a plan entered Morrigan's mind and she knew instantly what she needed to do. She stood and stalked into her room, closing the door behind her quietly. She opened the stationary kit Hermione had stuck on the bookshelf and picked out two note cards. She selected an edged quill for fancy writing and began to scrawl as glamorously as possible. After she was done, she repeated the same text on the other card, only with different names:

[Mr. Ronald Weasley] [Ms. Hermione Granger]--

You are invited to a romantic evening on February the Fourteenth, where your presence would be most favorable. This ticket is to be presented by the door at eight o' clock sharp.

Hope to see you there

Morrigan sat back and, quite satisfied, creased this carefully into a square fold. On the outside she added a bit of flair, then left the room, walking to the perch upon which Hermione's owl Urma sat. Morrigan tied the letter to the owl's leg, handed her a treat, whispered her destination, and sent her out the window to the Weasleys'.

With a smirk, she went back to her bedroom to begin planning this "romantic evening."

* * *

Two days later, Morrigan received a letter from Ron, although it was addressed to Hermione. Morrigan was grateful that the bird was smarter than Ron and that it hadn't blown the whole event.

Hermione--

Given the fact that I'm currently unhappy with you due to your own stupidity, wouldn't it just be a better idea to skip dinner at your place and have something low-key at Diagon Alley or something?

Ron

Morrigan swore angrily. Hermione looked up from her papers on the couch and said, "What's your problem?"

"Erm, I've got a hangnail," Morrigan lied lamely.

"Oh. Fix that then," Hermione said, sending her a strange look.

Morrigan went into her bedroom to gather her thoughts. The dolt used a dinner invitation to bicker with his girlfriend. He's got all the sensitivity of a blunt axe.

She wrote an angry reply in what she hoped appeared to be Hermione's hand:

Ron--

This was my way of apologizing and trying to mend the rift. Morrigan winced. Hermione had no intention, probably, of apologizing. Still, it was the only way to get the moron to come. Just come, I promise it will be worth your while.

Hermione

Morrigan looked down at a studied paper of Hermione's handwriting. She'd been half expecting a response, and therefore prepared for such. Of course, she'd thought it would be an R.S.V.P. Not a stupid retort.

She went back to the living room and gave the bird the letter, once again instructing her where to go. The bird took off and Morrigan watched her go anxiously.

* * *

Morrigan checked everything off her to-do list. The roast beef? Done. Cake? Done. Meat pasties? Done. Wine? Done. Sides? Done. Now all she needed was the--shit, she'd forgotten to give Hermione her ticket. The girl was currently shopping. Morrigan had given her some money and told her to go buy herself something really nice to wear because she needed the therapy. If Morrigan hadn't been watching an excessive amount of television, she wouldn't have come up with the idea. Apparently all women needed to buy break-neck heels and a smutty dress if they were having romantic troubles. Morrigan couldn't have known that this was an enormous cliché, and if she judged life by the stupid daytime sitcoms that Hermione occasionally liked to watch, she would find very soon that her budget had run short and the bills had run high.

It was seven. If she went to Diagon Alley right now and grabbed Hermione, she could get the girl home, in her outfit, her silly makeup on, and ready to look her best for Ron's arrival. She grabbed her wand from the counter and Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. The wizards around her glanced at her irritably and she showed them a rather nasty gesture. She went into the side alley and tapped the right bricks to get into Diagon Alley. Hurriedly she found Hermione in Madame Maulkin's, being fitted.

Morrigan looked down at her watch. "Hurry, please," she told Madame Maulkin, who threw her a dirty look.

Hermione raised her eyebrow questioningly and Morrigan just tapped her toe impatiently. Finally, a harassed Madame Maulkin finished with Hermione and her clothing and sent her out the door with her packaged clothing.

"Good," Morrigan said promptly. "You have an hour to get ready."

"Ready for what?" Hermione asked.

"For your date."

"MY WHAT?!"

"Your date. With Ronald Weasley. At eight."

"When did this happen?" Hermione shrilled.

"Look, I went through a hard bit of manipulation and cooking and preparing and et cetera, so cooperate or I'll hex you."

"Fine," Hermione grumbled. "How did you get Ron to come?"

"I told you, I manipulated him. I had to convince him that you planned this."

"Gee, Morrigan, your Death Eater qualities are being put to some use."

"Oh shut up. You'll be happy I did this."

"I already am," Hermione confessed. "I'm just a little alarmed."

"By what?"

"Putting up with Ron after he realizes you put this all on."

"He doesn't have to know."

"Sure. He'll find out."

"Wait until after the meal."

Hermione sighed then said, "All right. And you're going to be helping me get ready? Because one hour is not enough."

Morrigan stopped in her tracks. They were right outside the Leaky Cauldron. "You're joking, right? I couldn't make a Mediterranean siren beautiful--and they're already gorgeous."

"You'll do fine. You'll just be doing the small stuff."

Morrigan grumbled and then both Apparated with a crack.

At Hermione's, the girl rushed to her room to put on the robes. They looked more like a dress, and Hermione admitted this had been her intent. The dress was a silver, knee-length number, tied around the neck as a halter. When Hermione came out of the bathroom to have Morrigan tie the neck, Morrigan had to admit that Hermione looked very good. "I'm quite impressed, Hermione. When you're not hiding yourself behind robes and sweaters, you're something else."

"Morrigan, you're frightening me."

"Oh quiet, you. I was just saying you look nice and that Ron will be quite pleased."

"Do you think so?" Hermione asked uncertainly, and turned around. Morrigan smiled.

"Definitely. Now go put your makeup and crap on."

Morrigan began to set the table, lighting two candles. She placed the roast beef between the candles and then placed the accessory foods on either side of the roast beef. She set the plates and the silverware according to proper standards, then stood back, beaming. She put the cake on the counter, covering it with a glass case. Everything was perfect.

Hermione came out of the bathroom, looking ravishing. Her hair had been placed in a complicated knot on top of her head and she'd put pearl drop earrings in her ears. She gasped when she saw the sight awaiting her eyes.

"Did you--?" she asked breathlessly.

"All myself," Morrigan told her with a grin.

"Thank you," Hermione breathed, awed.

"Your date is due to arrive...now," Morrigan said, and sure enough, there was a knock at the door. Hermione scurried back into the bathroom, while Morrigan went to the door and answered it, finding two men there.

"Draco!" Morrigan exclaimed, surprised. "Oh, Weasley, Hermione's inside. Go on in."

Ron nodded wordlessly and moved past her. Morrigan went out into the hall, suddenly feeling very conspicuous in her stained jeans, sweatshirt and unbrushed hair. "So, what are you--?"

"Well, I figured Weasley and Granger would want you out of their hair, and you probably didn't want to be alone all night, so I thought I'd stop by and see if you want a bite to eat, or get a drink, or whatever."

Morrigan blushed splendidly, and she managed to stutter out something along the lines of, "Sure, one moment, have to change..." before retreating hastily into the flat. She came back out in her green robes about two minutes later, her hair slightly tamer.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah," Draco said, standing straight and independent of the wall. "Where you do you want to go?"

"Is there somewhere out of Diagon Alley?" Morrigan asked. "I've been at all of those restaurants about a thousand times each."

Draco smiled understandingly. "There's a nice joint on a lake in Scotland. We could just Apparate...?"

"Well, I don't really know where that is," Morrigan said.

"You can Side-Along Apparate," he told her. "Sure, it's less comfortable than Apparating by yourself, but at least you'll be able to do it next time."

Morrigan made a face, then took his hand. Looking around surreptitiously, Draco Apparated out of the apartment building and suddenly they were standing in the lobby of a rather nice bar. A few of the seats overlooked the lake, and Draco led the way to one of these seats.

Morrigan sat across from Draco, feeling rather awkward. This was a date, or so she thought. How could she tell?

They ordered quickly, Draco like an expert and Morrigan like the indecisive difficult customer. When the waiter walked away, shaking his head, Draco laughed at her.

"So, what have you been doing with your time, Draco?" Morrigan asked, ignoring his amusement.

"Mostly the same thing you've been doing--moping around my house and waiting for the Order to give me something to do."

"How do you know what I've been doing?" Morrigan asked, frowning.

"I've been talking to Hermione," he told her with a shrug.

"Wait, you've been Owling Hermione but not me?" Morrigan demanded.

"You never told me to Owl."

"I had hoped you would anyway."

"You should have started it, then."

Morrigan rolled her eyes and changed the subject.

Their food came in record time. Morrigan had picked only the chicken salad, while Draco had gone for a hearty meal of lamb. They ate in silence, occasionally commenting on something inane, but they kept mostly silent. Both pondered as to what the other was thinking. Neither could have predicted what the other was thinking, so it was futile to even try, but Morrigan guessed that Draco regretted having taken her out, since she was boring and useless, and Draco thought that Morrigan was probably irritated at him for bringing her out without having any specific purpose.

Morrigan finished first, then leaned against the window to look outside. Snow had fallen the day past, and the lake had frozen solid. Morrigan suddenly had a very funny thought--that she would very much like to go outside. She waited patiently for Draco to finish before she proposed this idea, which he seemed to like. Morrigan picked her cloak up on the cloak rack and then led Draco outside. It was, of course, very cold, and their breath came in thick clouds. Morrigan absolutely loved the colors the moon threw on the blanket of snow, and she ran ahead to take a look at the lake on a pass ahead.

"Hurry up!" she urged, sounding slightly childish.

"Hold on," Draco grunted up at her. "I don't really want to slip all the way down this hill."

Morrigan had climbed the hill with no difficulty and was now sitting on the ledge overlooking the lake, having dried a large patch for herself and Draco. When he reached the top, he wrinkled his nose at the slapdash seat in the middle of the snow. Morrigan tugged at his cloak, and he sank to the ground with her, looking at the view with her.

"This is amazing," she said out loud. "It's one of those generic sights, you know? You'll use this picture to remember tonight, or maybe February, or maybe--" Morrigan stopped herself at "me," so it now stood between them unspoken and ominous.

"What will you remember it for?" Draco asked her, nudging her slightly.

"Oh, Valentine's Day, I suppose," she said with a shrug. "Or winter beauty. It seems like something you would paint and put over your fireplace during wintertime."

"Mhm," Draco agreed. "Listen, you just want to go back to my place? It's still pretty early."

"Draco Malfoy!" Morrigan exclaimed, shocked.

"I didn't mean that," Draco snickered.

"All right," Morrigan said. "Where is it you live?"

"Eh, why don't we just Side-Along again?"

Morrigan glowered. "Fine."

Draco grabbed her hand, and with the familiar pressure on all sides, they were pushed through time and space, ending up in Draco's kitchen. His house was warm and sizeable, although it wasn't the Malfoy manner. It was actually a Georgian cottage--in other words a very large dwelling--situated comfortably on a hill. The sitting room was large, with creamy walls, a fireplace, and navy leather furniture. The walls were devoid of any decoration, save a family picture of a young Draco and his parents. In fact, it was a picture of Christmas morning. Lucius was uncharacteristically dressed in silk pajamas, sitting in a comfortable chair by the fire. Narcissa had a silken robe and feathered slippers, her hair plaited down her back. Between them Draco sat on the ground, a mess of parcel paper surrounding him, and he was playing with an animated dragon toy. Lucius smiled cheekily at the camera, while Narcissa looked adoringly at her son, who was sticking his tongue out.

Morrigan laughed silently to herself, sitting down in the armchair. She pointed a wand at the logs in the fireplace and immediately they ignited, cracking merrily. Draco entered, levitating mugs of tea, sugar, and cream. "I suppose I could have the house elf do it, but I had him filing the library and I wouldn't want to pull him away from his task."

Morrigan accepted her mug wordlessly, pouring cream and adding two lumps of sugar to the dark substance.

"What do you think?" Draco asked her, gesturing vaguely, and took a sip of his tea.

"I like it. It's cozy, but still roomy. You seem to be doing well."

"Actually, I sold Malfoy Manor and came to live here. It belonged to a distant cousin, and when they died, I was given it. Most fortunately, the Dark Lord didn't know about it or he would have known immediately where to find me."

"Yes, that is fortunate," Morrigan murmured, and sipped her tea. "Where precisely are we located?"

"Humberside," he told her promptly.

"Oh, I bet it's lovely during the summer. Do you often visit the shore?"

"Morrigan, I live right by it," he told her, laughing, and beckoned her to look out the window. Sure enough, she could see a lighthouse in the distance.

"So you're a lucky bastard," she said dryly, withdrawing from the window.

"My, we do sound bitter," he taunted.

"You won't find me bragging about a seaside cottage," she sniffed.

"As you like it," he said, still chuckling, then finished the rest of his tea.

"Do you miss them?" Morrigan asked quite suddenly, and Draco wasn't entirely sure whom she meant. "Your parents, I mean," she added quickly, as if reading his mind.

"Yes, profoundly," Draco told her quietly. "I won't tell you that we had a unique relationship, that we weren't without problems or defects, but we were very close, despite what outside eyes might have seen."

"What might they have seen?" Morrigan questioned, her brow furrowing.

"My father was rather...strict...in public. I believe Potter and his friends were under the impression that Father abused me."

"Did he?"

"No," Malfoy snapped harshly, and Morrigan flinched. "Sorry," he amended. "I don't want anyone to believe that. The truth is that my parents have always indulged me. I was their only heir, their--their baby." Draco's throat constricted suddenly, feeling very dry. He coughed, as if it would make this better. "Everything they did, they did it for me. Everything they encouraged me to do, they told me to do it because they thought it was the right course of action. They believed I was superior to Muggleborns and Halfbloods. They didn't know the difference between right and wrong. They were very sadly deluded." He laughed bitterly. Morrigan sat frozen to her seat, unsure of what to say. Draco solved the problem for her and went on. "In the end, it didn't matter that they were rich or that they were Pureblooded. Voldemort destroyed them regardless."

Morrigan repressed a shudder. She had been there, and worse, she had heard Bellatrix tell Rodolphus about it. Morrigan had eavesdropped on them while the couple was having an intimate moment. She'd been trying to find some kind of disloyalty to her lord, thinking that Bellatrix would reveal some sort of betrayal to her husband. Instead, Morrigan had heard the details of Narcissa's death and Lucius' torture from Bellatrix's point of view. Bellatrix cried hysterically to Rodolphus, telling him of Narcissa's last pleads of mercy, her husband's screams. Lucius had attempted to rip his own lips off. At the time, Morrigan had viewed the story with curiosity and intrigue. Now she found it repulsive and horrifying. Lucius was still in St. Mungo's, beside the Longbottoms and Gilderoy Lockhart, also quite insane.

Morrigan was speechless. "I really don't know what to say in these sort of matters," she confessed. "I've never really experienced any type of love."

"I'm sure your mother loved you," he told her stiffly.

"Yeah, but not enough. And I was a kid. You don't really know that it's love you're feeling until you're older, and that's only because you understand love by then. I may be one of the 'good guys' now, but I still don't know what love is."

"It's not as complicated as you think it is," Draco told her uncomfortably.

"You want to try to explain it to me, then?" Morrigan asked shrewdly.

"I--can't," he finished lamely. "Look, it's something you have to experience to understand, and it's easy to experience love."

"No, it's not," Morrigan laughed bitterly. "Love is so much more than an experience, and you don't just feel it once and then forget about it. It scars you forever and ever. It can be a really cool scar, something you can show off to your mates and say, 'Yes, I saved a little kid from a fire and got this one.' Or you can say, 'Yeah, my best friend pushed me out of a tree.' But you can also say, 'This is the story of how I lost the use of my eyes.' I mean, that's, of course, an anomaly. But still, it's not just an experience. It's a lifestyle."

"You seem to understand it more than you think," Draco mused softly, as if more to himself.

"I understand what it does to people," Morrigan corrected him sharply. "I don't understand what it is. It's an emotion, right? Except emotions are fleeting. Happy, sad, angry--they all last a moment on the grand scale. But a person can go almost their entire life loving the same person."

"If you know how it works, what don't you understand?"

"Does anyone really understand it?" Morrigan questioned. "Can anyone really understand without having loved someone? Why doesn't the Dark Lord understand love? Why does he hate it so much? It's obvious, isn't it? He never let anyone love him, and no one ever wanted to."

"Would you love him?"

"There was a time that I fancied myself in love with him, yes." Draco looked alarmed, so Morrigan added quickly, "Not romantically. It was just that strong attachment of loyalty that we all fancy to be love. It was a fervent infatuation, obsession. I lived for him, not just around him."

"Morrigan, your concept of love is strangely defined for someone who doesn't understand it."

"I told you," Morrigan snapped angrily, "I've never been privy to it myself. There's no way I could possibly describe it or term it--it's just...I used to have impossibly high standards, I think. Not for a mate, just for people in general. The only person that qualified was the Dark Lord. And now...those standards don't apply, so I'm not sure what I'm to do emotionally. How do I attach myself to people? I can't learn, because the only people who have any esteem for me seem to be you and Hermione, so how do I judge based on two people? The affection I have for you both, my first friends--is that love? Are there different types of love? But if there are, why not come up with a different name for the other type? Is there already? I just don't know," she exploded furiously. "I think that I don't want love, that I don't want the pain that comes along with it. I think, if I love someone, then I'm leaving myself open to them, shieldless and in their mercy, and how can I lean on someone like that? Depending on any variable means that when that variable is gone, you fall. And who wants that for themselves?"

"But what else is there?" Draco asked her astutely. "What else is there to live for?"

"That's the problem," Morrigan burst out. "I don't know!" She laughed disbelievingly. "It's so, so hard trying to make decisions based on a vague notion that may or may not exist, that you don't know the least about. I have all these fabulous ideas in my head about what it would be like, how it would feel, but I don't know if those are realistic, or even possible, let alone probable. So, how do I decide when I don't even know what the decision is?"

Draco stared at her for a moment then shook his head. "I don't know, but I do know that eventually you'll understand. Eventually, time will show you, and all these wounds that seem to be salted by your newfound morality will heal. Some time in the future, you and I will having a similar conversation, but you'll be speaking like a veteran."

"How do you know?"

"Morrigan, this may seem unbelievable to you, but there is someone out there that's willing to love a mad woman like you."

"I don't want to love anyone who would love me," Morrigan joked carelessly.

Draco's eyes flickered momentarily, but the unreadable emotion that had been there passed to quickly for Morrigan to comprehend, and therefore she left it alone. "Trust me," Draco said. "Just trust me."

"I do," Morrigan said quietly.

"Good."

"But that's not the question anymore is it? It seems like so long ago that you told me to question not why the Dark Lord trusted me, but why I trusted him. It seems like it's your turn to do the like, because I have to ask you: Do you trust me?"

Draco thought for a moment. "I don't know," he admitted finally, and Morrigan's face fell.

"Look, I know that's harsh, but I don't really trust anyone. And you barely trust yourself. I don't know if I can place my trust on someone like--like that, like you."

Morrigan nodded. "I understand. It all comes back to the question: Would I trust me? Of course not. I don't trust me. Why should you trust me?" Draco could see that she was still hurt. He knew she trusted him implicitly, but still, he couldn't help it.

"What's easier for you, Morrigan? The darker side of life, or the lighter?" Draco asked curiously, and Morrigan looked surprised.

"That was rather...sudden," she said carefully.

"Just answer the question," Draco commanded her delicately.

"I--I never had to take responsibility for my actions. But now I have less to take responsibility for. Or rather, the things I do now, I don't mind taking responsibility for them, because they're not..." She searched for a word on the ceiling. "Evil. They're not evil. And it's not easy taking responsibility even now, but I know I have to take responsibility and why, I don't think I could ever go back. I did awful things, and awful things were done to me. I was victimized almost as much as I victimized others. The Dark Lord lied to me. He told me to do these things, he told me what I was doing was right. And I believed him. Now every time I think back on every death, every tortured person, I feel their pain tenfold, because I can't forget about it. This pain isn't fleeting. I know that's selfish, but if I had known--I would never have done it. I know, it's redundant to say that, but when I do say it, I mean it was such frightening sincerity, I wish I could change it all. I wish I could take it all back. But I can never take back what I did. And I won't ever try. I'll just be the best I can be for the future, not for the past."

Draco was taken aback. "And you thought this all up on your own?"

"Yes," she told him. "It comes to me before I sleep. When my mind is off its guard."

"That's intriguing," Draco commented.

"Maybe," Morrigan said with a shrug.

And while he watched her, Draco thought to himself, What have I done? For once in my life, I can be proud of how I've affected a person, of how I've influenced their life. It hasn't ended up in pain, or death, or sadness. It's become wisdom and an endearing passion. Most alarming was the next thought: What now?

* * *

Ron made his way around Flaherty and stood awkwardly in the living room, clutching a box in his hand. The table was set up elegantly with candles and appetizing food. He could feel his stomach rumbling--or were those nerves? Hermione was nowhere to be seen. He sat down on the couch with a sigh, wondering what the hell he was doing here. I shouldn't have come, he thought to himself. This was a bad idea.

The bathroom door opened, showing a flood of light and then Hermione. Ron's heart caught in his throat and he had to put a lot of effort into not dropping his jaw. Truthfully, Ron hadn't seen Hermione like this since fourth year, and even then she didn't look nearly as beautiful as she did now. Her hair was piled elegantly on top of her head, and her eyes were bright and beautiful. Her dress clung tightly to her hips and waist, tying behind her neck. She had finished off with blue heelless sandals.

Ron tried to stutter out a greeting, but failed miserably. Hermione smiled blushingly at him--this was better than an awkward hello.

"Hi," she said quietly, blushing prettily.

Ron stood and then handed her the box he had in his hand. Hermione stepped forward to receive it and opened it ceremoniously and slowly. Inside laid a very lifelike rose pendent on a silver chain. Hermione gasped and picked it up gently in her fingers. "Ron! I--thank you."

"You're welcome," Ron muttered shyly. "Thought it'd look good--er, let me help you..."

He went around her and took the pendent over her shoulders and then clasped it in back. Hermione went to the hall and viewed herself in the mirror. "I love it," she told him, turning to beam at him.

Ron shrugged his shoulders and said, "Should we eat?"

"Yes, sure," Hermione said, walking into the kitchen. Ron hurried to pull her chair out for her. She sat cheerily, and he pushed the chair up for her. "Thank you," she chimed gaily.

He sat across from her and then began to cut the beef. He put a piece on Hermione's plate and another on his own, then served the rest to Hermione who looked heartbreakingly happy. "How are things at the Burrow, Ronald?" she asked, and Ron looked up sharply, but couldn't bring himself to respond with the first thing that came to his mind.

"They're fine. Mum asked after you."

"That was sweet of her," Hermione pealed.

"Er...yeah."

They finished in silence, Hermione glancing surreptitiously up at Ron occasionally, while he did the same when she wasn't looking. Every once in a while, Hermione would reach up and touch the pendent, thinking about how strange it felt. Ron was nervous, and she was tired. But somehow, it was all worth it. It was worth it to be spending time with her boyfriend on St. Valentine's Day. There was nowhere else she would rather be--what were Morrigan and Draco doing right now? Were they having more fun? Could Draco enjoy Morrigan's company more than her, Hermione's, own? Hermione shook these thoughts from her head. They were wrong while Ron was sitting across from her. She had done too much thinking about Draco and not enough on Ron. That's one of those things that had gotten her into trouble in the first place.

"It's rather quiet," Hermione said briskly, looking for something else to put her mind on.

"Yeah," Ron agreed.

"Music?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, sure."

She went to the CD player where Morrigan had already placed CDs for her own romantic ideas. Hermione laughed silently to herself, then put the CDs in the player, allowing the jazz to fill the air. She sat back down at the table and said aloud, "It was so nice of Morrigan to prepare this for us."

Ron choked loudly on his food, spitting a potato piece onto his plate. "What?" he spluttered, shocked.

"Nice. Morrigan Prepare?" Hermione said slowly, emphasizing these key words.

"Sh-she--?"

"Yes, sh-she," Hermione repeated smugly. "She had only the best in mind. Now, moving from Morrigan's unprompted kindness, would you like to dance?"

Ron looked, if possible, even more stricken at the idea of dancing in the middle of Hermione's sitting room, especially dressed as he was and dressed as she was. Hermione didn't wait for a "no" which was undoubtedly what she would receive, and instead grabbed his hand and pulled him to a stand. She dragged him to the living room where she placed one of his hands firmly on her waist and the other in her own. Her other hand placed itself gently on his shoulder, and then she began to sway gently. Ron took the hint and began to imitate her actions.

"I've missed you, Ron," Hermione said softly, looking him in the eye. Ron couldn't quite meet her eyes, looking very hard at the space right beyond her. Hermione sighed dramatically. "This is all over, Ron. We should just move on and agree to disagree."

"Well, I can't really disagree with you anymore, can I?" Ron said slowly. "I mean, not with any substantial proof."

"Ronald!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Well, if you would stand by her that much, and if you have nothing to complain about, why should we? I might not like her, but if you trust her, I suppose I've got to."

"That's very wise of you," Hermione ventured cautiously.

"Well, don't get used to it," Ron said, smiling bravely. "It's more for your benefit than hers."

"Thanks," Hermione said, and she moved closer. They stood like that for a very long time. Ron's arms wrapped her close to his body, her face pressed against his chest. She breathed deeply, smelling that familiar smell of wood, baking bread, and something like pine.

After standing like that for some while, they migrated to the floor against the couch where Hermione leaned against Ron's tall frame, both hands clasped very tight in his hands. Hermione got an idea and slowly unfolded her arms from Ron's, standing quickly and running to her bedroom, then came back out with a camera in her hands.

Ron groaned, but she laughed and said, "Come on, Ron, we need a picture. There are so few of us."

Ron rolled his eyes, muttering mutinously, but when Hermione slid back onto his lap, smiled a crooked half smile that Hermione was particularly fond of while she snapped the picture.

She took a few more snapshots, then put the camera aside. She turned to face her Ron, staring at him with very big, bright eyes and then kissed him very softly on the lips.

"I love you," she said, and she meant it.