The Hospital Conversations

"Look," Ron said, exhaustion apparent in his voice, "I am glad you came."

Hermione stopped dead in the hallway outside of the hospital wing. Hermione felt a moment of shock at the realization that Ron was awake, and apparently recovering as Madame Pomfrey had promised. Hermione felt the relaxation of several days' tension that had wound itself between her shoulder blades, and sudden moisture in her eyes.

"He is going to be alright," she thought with crushing relief. "He really is."

Blinking rapidly, Hermione saw that the door to the hospital wing was open a crack. Ron sounded as if he had spoken directly to her, but he could not see her yet. He was obviously not too happy about his present conversation, and he sounded as if he was under strain.

Hermione felt a moment of protective annoyance at whoever was pestering Ron in his condition. He had still been comatose the evening before when Hermione had stopped to check on him; a ritual she had repeated several times in the last three days. Hermione had an inkling who would reply, before the shrill voice even reached her ears. She peeked through the crack in the door. Ron was propped against a headboard, and swaddled in his blankets. He looked weak, but he was alive...wonderfully gloriously alive and awake.

She was also not surprised to see the back of a blonde figure standing imperiously over the sickened Ron. Hermione fought down a powerful urge to barge in and start plucking out those silky straight blonde hairs one by one.

"Oh, sure," came Lavender Brown's petulant response. "You seem so overjoyed."

"Look," said Ron, exasperated. "I barely know what day it is. Just give me a few days to get my bearings,"

"A few days!?" squealed Lavender, bending over Ron with one hand on her hip and the other hand pointing accusingly. "I've been worried sick about you for three days already! And Madame Pomfrey would barely let me in the door! But of course, all of your friends could come in and see you at all hours. 'Special permission of the family,' said the old bat! Meanwhile, I'm stuck crying in my room thinking you would die and nobody would even bother to tell me! But of course, your friends would be called immediately..."

As Lavender's tirade continued, Ron wore a look that Hermione knew well. Ron was generally high spirited, but at that moment Ron was wearing the moody and mulish expression that usually preceded some sort of highly rude and/or insensitive outburst.

It was exactly the same expression that Ron had worn for several days before that terrible Quidditch match; the one after which Ron had begun his ridiculous affair with Lavender.

"Has she been here...again?"

"Oh, give over, Lavender!" said Ron, his raised voice becoming harsh. "I'm in hospital and I don't need you questioning what I do with my friends!"

Lavender straightened as suddenly as if she had been slapped. Hermione had to suppress a thrill of glee.

"Well..." sputtered Lavender with a sniff. "Well..."

Ron sunk sulkily into his blankets and crossed his arms on his chest.

Lavender suddenly sat on the edge of his bed, which allowed Hermione to see her simpering, but pretty face. "Well of course you are not feeling well just yet," said Lavender in syrupy tones. She patted Ron's arm in a motherly way. "You are not yourself at all."

Ron made a noncommittal grunt.

"I'll leave you to rest, my poor Won Won," said Lavender, as if it was her idea all along and Ron was insisting she stay too long.

"Lavender, look, that's not it..." started Ron uncertainly. "Look..."

"Yes," said Lavender, nodding her head with a vapid smile. She was the picture of caring encouragement.

Hermione's jaw ached and she realized she had started grinding her teeth.

Ron sighed and said, "That's not...a bad idea."

"Allright, Sweetie," said Lavender and she leaned over to plant a firm, but thankfully closed-mouth, kiss on Ron's lips.

Fighting an urge to gag, Hermione suddenly realized that it would be decidedly inconvenient to be discovered by the Blonde Tart when she exited the infirmary. Hermione peered up and down the hallway on either side. She cast a quick glance at Ron, who was staring at Lavender uncomprehendingly while Lavender fretted over setting his blankets straight. Amused at his discomfiture, Hermione moved swiftly to the closet she had spotted and sequestered herself inside.

As she sat primly on an overturned mop bucket, Hermione realized she needn't have rushed. Muffled by the closet door, Hermione could hear Lavender dutifully speaking to Madame Pomfrey about Ron's condition. Of course, Lavender needed to know if there was anything she, Ron's girlfriend, of course, could do to speed Ron's recovery or to keep him from overstressing himself, because, of course, Ron was ever the most industrious of boys.

Hermione nearly laughed out loud at that. If it didn't have to do with Quidditch, food, or chess, Ron's industrious nature was definitely less than apparent. The silly girl had absolutely no clue about Ronald Weasley.

Luckily the closet was rather spacious and the mop bucket sat against a wall. So Hermione leaned back and stretched her legs out. She might as well get comfortable as she waited for the end of Lavender's nonsensical monologue.

Hermione rubbed her aching jaw as she sat in the dark closet. She contemplated what was going to be her first conversation with Ron in months. What would she say? What could she say?

Well, of course there were a lot of things she could say, but should she?

Should she tell Ron that she had never felt as frightened or as horrible as when he had been poisoned that day? Should she tell Ron that she had never run so fast in her life as she did that day? Should she tell Ron how badly she had wanted...no needed...someone to tell her that Ron would not die that day? Should she tell Ron that she had mentally castigated herself in the cruelest terms for not speaking to him that day? Should she tell Ron that she had never felt as desolate as she had that day? Should she tell Ron that it had taken all of her restraint to keep from weeping by his bedside that day?

That terrible, awful, horrible day.

"Please, please live, Ron, please live," she had thought to herself, the mantra repeating endlessly in her distraught mind. "Please, please live."

That day the conversation of the others in the room had washed over her, and she had paid little attention. Somebody had said something that sparked interest in her, however, and she had quietly responded. She didn't even remember what had been said, now. It had been the first time she had said anything since entering that room. Then Ron had done it.

"ER-MY-NEE," Ron had muttered at the sound of her voice.

Should she tell Ron that when he had said those syllables her heart had exploded in her chest? Should she tell Ron that she had sat there shaking silently among the crowd of onlookers? Should she tell Ron how her emotions had coursed through her like a river of fire and ice? Should she tell Ron that his response to her voice...and only her voice...had thrilled her and buoyed her?

And what did all of this mean?

Hermione shook her head ruefully. She knew what it meant, but she was not willing to admit it to herself yet. Not like this. Not with Lavender being his girlfriend.

Thinking of Lavender, Hermione suddenly realized that the voices in the hallway had ceased.

It was time to talk to Ron, then.

Standing and straightening her robes, Hermione stepped to the door of the closet. After making sure the coast was clear, she exited and walked resolutely to the door of the hospital wing.

"Well," she thought, feeling the flutters in her chest, "whatever I am going to tell him, I will be telling it to him soon."