Our Lonely August

Bright, warm sunlight bathed Hermione and warmed her; it had turned her skin a lovely golden-brown over the summer, and she couldn't help noticing that her tone had caught up to the color of the freckles on her bare shoulders. She shifted position on the stone bench on which she perched; smoothing her skirt, she moved her book from where it was propped against the arm and laid it on her legs, folded under her. Without thinking, Hermione deftly caught her thick mane of curls in one hand and wound an elastic around the bunch, to keep it off her neck. There were a couple pieces that stuck up in the back, she knew; but she just smiled and went back to her book, chewing her lip as she reached each climatic event and had to wait five seconds to continue reading as she turned the page.

There was nothing better than reading outside in at the end of summer, she decided; schoolwork was completed, she had done a bit of studying (though not as much as she would have liked; how the twins and Ron would have teased her if she spent the sunny afternoons and cool nights up in Ginny's room revising), and she was by herself. Ginny was following Harry around, trying not to make it obvious that she was still interested in him, if not more so than the last summer, so she was no company; Harry, in turn, pretended that Ron's sister was too young for him, but at the same time would spend hours on end just talking with her, and Hermione knew, she just knew, he was trying to work up the nerve to kiss her. He and Ginny weren't destined, she was aware of that much; but she also had the feeling neither Harry or Ginny would object if a summer romance blossomed between them.

As for the rest of Ron's family, she wasn't sure where they were. Fredand George were holed up in the room they shared doing who-knew-what; maybe they were inventing, maybe not. Charlieand Bill (who had arrived at separate times the night before, by Apparation and Floo powder respectively) were out with their mum, shopping for the end-of-summer barbeque/picnic Mrs. Weasley was to throw later that night; shopping for eleven people was no mean feat. Percy... Percywas a different story entirely. He was the only Weasley not rushing around or planning something (though he was usually the most rushed out of anyone); Percy was getting married to his girlfriend of almost four years, Penelope Clearwater, that January, and he was moving out of the Burrow and to a small house inside Ottery St. Catchpole early that October. He was supposed to be packing his things, but instead had taken some time to himself to garden in his small plot at the far end of the yard. Hermione could see him now, small and bent, uncharacteristically dirty, plucking at stubborn weeds with a spade. Every now and then he would drag a hand across his sweaty brow and streak dirt on his face.

And Ron... Hermione had no idea where he was, and perhaps it was for the best. When they were together all they did was fight, and at the moment all Hermione was interested in was her book. It wasn't exactly required reading for school; in fact, Hermione was sure that almost no one in the wizarding world had ever heard of The Secret Garden; but, all the same, the plot, the characters, and the writing captivated Hermione. Misselthwaite Manor was so old, so creaky and shrouded in mystery Hermione couldn't help but try to picture herself in Mary's shoes, exploring and looking for poor Colin, wondering what each creak of the huge mansion meant, traipsing through weeds and grass around the Secret Garden, a garden much like this one...

...Except this one wasn't so secret anymore, she noticed, when a shadow fell over her book and she felt the presence of someone settling in the seat next to her left elbow; maybe it was Percy, tired from his day of working amidst his flowers. Keeping her eyes narrowed and down, she stole a glance at the figure next to her; she sighed in frustration as one look at the frayed, worn blue T-shirt and messy shock of orange hair confirmed that her 'visitor' wasn't Percy, but Ron.

She expected him to say something, start tapping his foot, or whistling, or doing anything really, to distract her. So she waited, one eye on her book, one eye on Ron; half a mind in the Secret Garden, where she was talking and laughing with Mary, Colin, and Dickon, half a mind focused on how to retort depending on what Rondid to divert her attention. But he didn't move, didn't make a sound; she barely heard him breath for the first few minutes he sat beside her, quietly.

"Well?" she demanded, annoyed, after ten minutes of not being able to concentrate fully on her book (or fully on Ron, either); "What do you want?" She slammed her book shut and glared at him, brown eyes flashing.

He grinned with his patented melancholy smile; looking straight ahead and not meeting her eyes, he shrugged and fingered the designs etched into the stone bench. "I dunno," came his soft reply. "I thought I'd come out here and see what you were up to."

She had to force back a smile; "Well, I'm reading, as you can plainly see." She looked back down at the front cover of her book, and pretended to be interested in the spelling of the author's name; Frances Hodgson Burnett, she repeated to herself, over and over; Frances Hodgson Burnett....

"Oh," she started slowly, "I thought you would be doing something more worthwhile.... You know, like writing to, oh, say...." Here it comes, she thought. He's going to go on about earlier this summer; I just know he is... "...Vicky," he finished, shooting a quick, smug sideways glance at her.

She had gone to Bulgaria for the beginning of the summer, to visit Viktor Krum, her friend and Seeker for Bulgaria's Quidditch team. Hermione knew Ron wouldn't approve, as he tried to hate the duck-footed eighteen-year-old, but it wasn't up to him; so I had Harry write to him, and tell him, she told herself again; No harm in that. Irritated, she narrowed her eyes; "I don't have to write him right yet, as we just spent the summer together; and besides, it's Viktor, not Vicky, you know that well as I do, Ron Weasley. Maybe if you got to know him you'd like him a bit more; he really is terrific, you know."

Hermione's tone meant 'case closed, end of discussion' but she could tell Ron was itching to go on about Viktor and Bulgaria in general; after all, he had waited patiently for a week, and now he wanted to know all the details of what she wouldn't let on to; her visit with him. "Well, I mean, he's eighteen, he's so much older, and I don't know why you would bother to get to know him at all, never mind write him. You're only fourteen, what could he want with you besides---"

"Maybe he'd like to be friends," she shot back icily; "Or maybe something more, I wouldn't know, I haven't asked him to spill his deepest and darkest secrets with me. And as for this summer---"

He cut her off abruptly. "I don't want to hear what you did this summer with your darling Vicky!" he spat in that way that made it certain that, yes, he did want to know what went on. Percy glanced in their direction from his own plot with a half-interested semi-grin.

"Well," she replied coolly, opening her book and looking down again, trying to let Percyknow there was no need for him to pay attention to them, "then I don't know what more we have to discuss on the matter." They both fell silent.

Hermione knew he was dying to say something else, but she didn't ask; instead, she smirked down at her book, waiting. "So..." he began slowly, and went on in a rush, visibly pained, "what-did-you-do-this-summer?" Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Did you -er- get along -ah- well with Vicky- uh, Viktor?"

She smiled, and took her time answering. "Well..." she began, shutting her book and running a finger along the edge of the bench as Ron squirmed, eagerly awaiting her answer, "We didn't kiss or anything, if that's what you're wondering, - not that you should be!" she admonished as Ron smiled, relieved ("Go on," he prodded her); "But we went sightseeing and I met the rest of his team, and it really was terrific," she finished, a dreamy look in her eyes that Ron chose to overlook. "How was your summer?" she asked, their earlier semi-fight forgotten.

"Ah, well---" he smiled and turned toward her as she leaned against the side of the bench, head cocked, listening intently. "It was ok, 'cept without you - you and HarryI mean! - things were kind of boring. But we went to visit Penelope's family, you know, and Mum and Mr. Clearwater..." he whistled and Hermione smiled; he went on like this for several minutes, telling about his summer in great detail, elaborating on some minor events ("And Ginny, almost died-" he grinned at her horrified expression, "-right, the twins gave her some candy to try...."). Ron enjoyed the attention she gave him, and Hermione just liked listening to him; she had to hand to him, he really could tell a good story if he wanted. When he wasn't trying desperately to find something wrong with her, and when she wasn't trying to prove him wrong about something, anything, he said, they really did get along alright, she noted.

Hermione leaned back against the arm of the bench as Ron shrugged and smiled smugly, finishing his story - "Yea, right, but really, the summer was uneventful, you know," - and they lapsed into a comfortable silence, Ron's arm draped across her shoulders, where he had let it come to a rest, their knees touching ever-so lightly. Hermione thought he seemed to be blushing a bit, but it was probably just the sun; yes, by the sound of it, he had been outside all summer, and the faint coloring on his cheeks was probably just sunburn she hadn't noticed before. "What are you reading?" he asked abruptly, pulling her out of her thoughts as he reached out and tapped the faded pink cover of her favourite book.

"Oh, it's- it's The Secret Garden," she began slowly, but continued in earnest when she saw he was listening to her, one eyebrow raised above an intense blue eye. "It's about this girl, Mary, and she goes to live with her Uncle at his Manor... and she makes friends with Dickon and poor, sickly little Colin, and together they find a secret garden, and for awhile it's just a terrific place of their own---." She stopped. "But- but maybe you wouldn't be interested, I mean, it is great literature, and you know...."

He ignored her dig, and instead started quietly, "I have my own secret garden..." evoking from his female companion an interested 'oh?' and raised eyebrows much like his own. How similar they could be at times.

"Well, it's- it's not exactly a garden..." he finished reluctantly, "but more like a- a place of my own. You know? I mean, in this family... sometimes- sometimes you need your own spot to think, to really be yourself. I know that's not terribly deep, but...."

"May I see it?" she asked softly, hesitantly. "I mean, if you'd rather I don't, I'd understand, but---"

"No, no! I'd- I'd like to show you." He half smiled and got up, offering a shy hand to help Hermione to her feet. Something changed, she noticed; something wasn't exactly right, as it should have been, that something that kept them in the 'just best friends' boundaries. But all the same, she smiled and took his hand, and walked quietly beside him, leaving behind her own secret garden, and Mary's, for Ron's.

Hermione felt she had to say something when her hand brushed against his and he pulled back right away; "Why'd you need your own place anyway? I mean, you have your room...."

He sighed, and she stole a glance at him. He seemed to be thinking, running her question through his mind, turning it over and over; it took him a minute before he replied. "Well, I don't know. I mean, I know, but... Well, when all my brothers went to Hogwarts, and even when all of them except Fred and Georgewent, I dunno, I was the youngest boy, and Mum and Dad thought that was great, even though Ginny was there too. And I became a Mama's Boy - I was!" he exclaimed when she giggled. "When they all came home for the summer, it was just- well, it was weird. The house wasn't just mine and Mum's, and Dad's and Ginny's, it was all of ours. I was jealous, because Mum and Dad would pay attention to Fred and George, and Bill and Charlieand Percy. And I was only nine, but I needed someplace for me to go that no one else knew, that no one else cared about.

"Ginny and I 'found' that little piece of land. It was messy, and kind of a dump, so we fixed up, and we made a sign and everything - "Ginn 'n Ron, Ev'ryone Else --- Beware". It had all these mistakes, and crooked letters and stuff, but we thought that was ours. Ginny has her friends now, and she doesn't need to go back there all that often, but when we do, it's like the old days; we're like Colinand Mary in your book, you know. You're what's-his-name, Dickon, now, I guess," he finished.

There was so much she could have said; "Thanks, and now I'm a boy then," "Wow, I never knew that you were so... deep," or "You could have told me sooner," but somehow it seemed so much better to just take his hand and smile, leaving him to his thoughts. There were some things, she knew, that you didn't get into unless the other person invited you; and, while Ron may have offered his invitation by letting her on to what went on in his head, she knew it wasn't the right time to offer her opinion. Family matters were the one thing Hermione wasn't going to get into with Ron; much as she could tell him it was all right, that she and Harry loved him anyhow, and that anytime he needed to talk they'd be there, he wasn't going to listen; he was much too stubborn, and keeping quiet was really the only way to help him.

A comfortable, companionable silence hung between the two as they made their way to 'Ron's Secret Garden' as Hermione dubbed it, and she almost mechanically twisted the elastic from her hair and let the mass fall to her shoulders; she also didn't seem to realize all the while that her fingers were lightly intertwined with his and making Ron blush crimson to the roots of his flaming hair. It wasn't just sunburn, but Hermione wasn't aware of that as Ron parted a curtain of hanging branches smack in the middle of a row of weeping willows and whispered, "This is really the edge of our property right here, officials in St. Catchpole planted all these trees years and years ago, before Mum and Dad were born even... but I call it the edge of my universe, because time stops here, right here. There's a big hill on the other side, and it just goes for miles and miles of fields; there's no time there, once you step to that hill. I'll show you that some day. But for now..." he trailed off, smiling as he let the willow's branches fall behind her, a curtain of light and dark green leaves.

"Oh Ron..." she started, but could get no further. She walked over to a small aqua pond in the semi-darkness created by the veil of trees; running her fingers through the cool water she gazed at the bursts of red and orange, yellow and purple; each bunch of different flowers had a fragrant smell that seemed to be contained within the drooping branches. The grass came up to her ankles but was the greenest she had ever seen, and tapered into stubby water reeds and muddy riverbank in the middle of the mini-forest. It was all the same height (Ron obviously took care of this place, much as he claimed he didn't 'need' it anymore) except for around a rotted, tilting wooden sign carved with letters that looked like they had been made by a four-year-old - Ron's printing was obviously atrocious even years ago. She closed her eyes and listened to the clashing sounds of mosquito, bullfrog, and bees droning about her head in the air, thick and heavy with the smell of a hundred different flowers. "It's so... peaceful."

"Well, it's not much," he replied with a lopsided half-smile and a blush, glancing around at what he called 'not much' and she deemed 'absolutely terrific'; Hermione turned and stood in front of him, grinning, head tilted. Ron had the overwhelming urge there in the privacy of the trees to steal a kiss, just like he had always wanted, but instead held himself back and stuttered, "But all the same, it's- it's perfect. Just the place for thinking, and- and-...."

"And what?" Hermione asked, as her voice dropped to a whisper in the tranquility of such a sacred place in nature: without warning, she took a step towards Ron, and he did the same to her.

His voice faltered; he was losing control; he hated when she did this to him, just dragged him from his safe place buried inside his jumbled mind and threw his thoughts into the open. The worst part was he let her, allowed her to take his thoughts and do whatever she pleased with them. He was damned now, he knew it: damned to turn into that quivering lump of Ron-jelly he so seldom became. "And it just- I was just... thinking... thinking of how it all seems so- so perfect... when there's... when you... when you're...."

He didn't know how it happened, he really didn't: one minute he was stuttering, trying to find the right words for once that described how utterly beautiful, peaceful, and serene she seemed to him, trying to find everything that would say how much he wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her, and just let things happen between them however they happened; the next minute the spell was broken; he had reached his arms out, just barely pushed her back so she never knew, never had a chance to say anything before she fell back in the deep water. It was a desperate attempt to hold on to what little sanity he had left, and he knew it, but there was nothing else he could do.

Hermione came up sputtering, brown hair curling wildly and framing her face. Her cheeks were red, and she was embarrassed, but he couldn't help pointing, too busy laughing at his friend's sad appearance to say anything.

It was in the next second that he found himself tumbling head over feet next to her, and heard Hermione's mad giggling in his ears when he came up for air. "Serves you right!" she cried, laughing, almost doubled over.

"Yea, well...." He grinned but ducked under the water, not bothering to get out of the pond at all; he was not even a foot away from her, and was pleased that she hadn't jerked away at all, something she normally would have done. Then again, these weren't normal circumstances; he had never found himself so close to his best friend, chest-deep in murky water that didn't seem to be bothering either of them in the slightest.

His breath caught in his throat when she reached out and brushed a few wet orange-red tendrils from his forehead. She had never done anything quite like that before, and his heart was racing, thrilled at the prospect of what might stem from all this silliness. This was crazy, this was insane, this was all he had ever hoped for, and he couldn't help himself as one of his hands found its way down her spine and came to rest of the small of her back. He didn't know why nothing was stopping the fingers on his other hand from dancing through her hair and twisting the dripping curls over and over and over. And even when she softly and half-heartedly whispered, "Ron, I don't..." there was nothing in the way of his lips connecting with her own.

It was short and sweet, but Ronwasn't sure whether his lips brushing against Hermione's and his tongue not-quite entering her mouth could really be considered a proper kiss. Even if he had felt that strange rush of adrenaline in his brain, even if he felt like an electric current suddenly rendered him incapable of coherent thoughts and awareness of his surroundings, even if his entire being was suddenly fixed and focused on the soft material of her tank he held tight between his fingers and the fact that he was kissing Hermione, his best friend, it didn't mean she felt even near the same way that he did. But he didn't seem to care about that at all, he realized; in fact, it didn't make a bit of difference if this meant anything to her or not. Because, for one split second, for one frozen moment of time, he, Ronald Weasley, was kissing Hermione Granger; for one billionth of all his life he had spent on Earth he was all Hermione was aware of, and if he was sure of that, at least, nothing else mattered. He mattered, at that very second.

It was Hermione who pulled back first, after that amazing five seconds when world had stopped spinning, and only Ron and Hermione were aware of it. To his relief she wasn't angry, wasn't disgusted, didn't seem appalled that he had done something he was sure seemed off-limits to her. Rather, she seemed surprised, shocked... pleased? No, he was imagining that; it was only his wistful thinking. But all the same, she didn't reel back and hit him, didn't even mention the 'kiss'; instead, she said, soft as before, "Ron, how about you- you show me that hill now? I think I need to... get out of here. Dry off."

So he nodded stupidly, numb with amazement and disbelief, and held out a hand to her, ready to take her anywhere where he could lay beside her in the setting sun and just murmur everything that didn't matter in a place where time, for him at least, didn't exist. He heard her little cry of amazement and how much she was overwhelmed as he parted the trees in more swift a manner than even Moses parting the sea; and he felt how she clung to his arm at the terrific sight of things only he could have granted her: the steep, steep hill of lush green velvet that ran almost perpendicular to a field of more colors than she could ever imagine, all blended together and muted, soft pastels God himself had used to paint the landscape. "Fly with me, let go," he whispered, and took her hand tightly, pulling her down the hill, his other arm outstretched, soaring like an eagle, feet barely touching the ground. And his spirits lifted with him as she laughed beside him, her giggle something heavenly and otherworldly: a sound that had never before reached his ears.

And when he lay beside her, over her, so close her breath tickled him right down to the depths of his very soul, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else. He chose the moment of pure magic to steal another kiss, longer than the first, and propped himself on his elbows; the sun was a great ball of burning red flames, suspended above a glowing field of infinite hues, making the field it teetered on a luminescent golden mat waving ghostly silver hands at its creator in the sky. On her back, Hermione tilted her head, swirling dark pools meeting the sky at the ends of the Earth; he breathed, loud enough only so she could barely sense his words, "See Hermione? See why I claimed this as my corner of everyone's universe?" She was barely able to nod as he continued, "And if you- then this could be ours. A part of the world all our own, sharing something between us that only we understand, that only we get...." He was trying to hold on desperately to what he barely had, but it didn't matter, as long as she would agree.

It was when she sighed that he moved away onto his back, staring up at the silvery-black sky, glassy and unreal, shining in an ethereal way that made Ron realize how odd, just how crazy this all was; but when she laid her head on his chest listening to his heartbeat and nothing else, he didn't seem to care. "I know what you want," came her reply, so out-of-place that he had a feeling she barely had acknowledged what he had said, "but I can't give you that. I don't love you like that, not now...."

His world plummeted; he had let her into his universe, inside his head where thoughts were tossed precariously, ready to tumble at a seconds' notice, where the only this that was stable was what he really felt for her. He had lowered his defenses, shared all of him with her for a brief moment before time stopped - and shattered. "But- but I don't understand. All this...."

"You said for yourself... time stopped." He went to kiss her, make her reconsider, but she stopped him. "When time stops, anything can happen, but after... after I can't promise anything. I'm not - we're not - made out for anything right yet. I'm- I'm still a little girl. And I can't have anything happen between us just yet. Maybe sometime, but not... not now."

He sighed, and let his gaze drift to the sky. The sky couldn't hurt him. The sky was his friend, concealing everything he ever felt, keeping all his secrets... secret. But all the same, he smiled, or tried to anyway; the corners of his mouth didn't want to twist upward and it came off as more of a grimace. "This August has been so... so lonely, Hermione," he tried in vain.

But she didn't say anything for a moment; just took his hand in hers and held it tight, fingers intertwined so he didn't know where her fingers began and his ended. Her other arm was bended, holding his cheek as he shut his eyes tight, pretending they were in a place far, far away where she weren't a little girl and she was in love with him as much as he was with her: he wished upon a star that one day they might lay just as he could picture them in that eerie whiteness that seemed so close, yet so far away at the same time. But his mind floated out into the vast expanse of space when she, for the first time, kissed him. "Well," came her voice, softer even than the thousands of angels suspended above them in the sky's eternal crush of every color imaginable. "Since it seems the world has stopped, and there's no such thing as time... let's be alone together, for now."

And even if maybe he should have said no, even if he might have stopped anything from happening under that dying sun, Ron couldn't help but give in to the faint pleas of that lonely August.