Meeting in the Middle, Chapter 3: Victims
Title: Meeting in the Middle
Chapter 3: Victims
Genres: Romance/Drama/Angst
Word count: 1,728
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Graphic gore, cursing (thus far)
Summary: After the Final Battle, Hermione agrees to an unusual request in order to help Snape survive a curse.
As she began the slow trek to Ron's bed, Hermione was suddenly grateful for the foot injury that bought her some time. She'd nearly vaulted off the bed in her haste to find out what was the matter with him, but now she had no idea what she was actually going to say to him.
The problem was the kiss.
No, she told herself. Be honest, you're the problem. If you hadn't been so damn grateful, you wouldn't be in this spot.
For as long as she could remember, she'd been teased mercilessly for her intelligence, her bossiness, her unfortunate hair and teeth. She'd never expected that anyone would ever notice plain, brainy Hermione Granger.
But Ron had. One day, early in her third year, she'd looked up from a book and caught Ron staring at her across the common room. He had stared at her many times before. Sometimes with awe at one of her off-the-wall solutions. Sometimes with fond exasperation at her bookish habits. Sometimes with devious good fun when they were about to pull off some insane scheme.
But that time there was an awareness that had never been there before, and she'd fought the sudden urge to cross her arms over her chest. She'd begun her menstrual cycle a few months before then, and her breasts, which had been mere bumps before, had grown to a respectable handful each. It still startled her sometimes when she encountered them as she dressed, hanging there like heavy fruit. Or when she got out of the shower and saw a woman looking back at her in the mirror, water sluicing between her breasts and over her belly, right down to the modest thatch between her legs.
She'd felt like Ron noticed all of that, in that subtle way he had that made him so good at chess. He was always looking for the things nobody else saw. And that day he saw her. She'd finally looked away, endless seconds later, and things were never the same between them.
She'd never noticed Ron like that before, but since he was so kind as to look her way, she decided to look at him right back. It was a mixed bag: He was smart, loyal, brave (of course), lanky and graceful, with piercing blue eyes. But he was also lazy, insensitive, and insecure from living in the shadow of both Harry and his big brothers.
Still, though: he'd noticed her. He was her friend, he was going to be a good man, and he was attracted to her. For the longest time, she thought that would be good enough for her.
But it wasn't, and the moment she'd lost her head and kissed him in front of the Room of Requirement, she'd known that it never would be. She needed more. She needed to be with a man she loved back, who made her body burn with arousal. All she'd felt when she'd kissed Ron--along with her fierce pride that he'd finally learned to care about the house-elves--was a faint nausea at his bad breath. He'd been a horrible kisser, too.
And now here she was, on her way to his bed, trying to figure out when it would be okay to tell her grieving best friend that she'd give anything to take back that one mad kiss. It would be so much simpler if he weren't her best friend. If she didn't love him like a brother. But he was. She did. And she didn't have a clue what to do about it.
She stopped and leaned against a bed. She was halfway there, and her foot was throbbing so much that she could feel it through the numbing charm. She wondered again how Ron had been injured, since the only thing she could see wrong with him was grief. She fought down a wave of anguish, thinking about Fred. Later. She'd deal with that later. Right now she had to focus on Ron.
Hermione stood up straight again, biting her lip at the jab of pain from her foot, and got moving. All too soon she was at his bedside and sank gratefully into a chair. It was still warm from the previous occupant.
"Hullo, Hermione," he said softly, still picking at the thread on his sheet. His sandy lashes nearly swept his cheeks; he still wouldn't look at her. She reached out gently and covered his hand with her own. He stilled, then turned his hand over grasped her fingers tightly. His breathing became harsh. Not crying, but not okay.
The next minute pulsed with uncomfortable silence. Finally, Hermione offered timidly, "I'm so sorry about Fred."
Ron's lips thinned to a line, and Hermione wished mightily for her wand so she could conjure a privacy screen around them. She remembered the way Snape's worn black boot had pushed the wand toward her. His foot had dragged a dark path in the dew. She shook her head. Focus.
Ron mastered himself and said, "Yeah. Me too. Talked about it a bit with Mum--she was just here. She wanted to stay last night, but I told her I was fine. Told her to go back home and...you know, be with family. She and Dad'll have to. Um. Plan Fred's funeral, I guess." He let go of Hermione's hand and rubbed at one eye with the heel of his palm. "So she came back this morning to make sure I'm alright."
"Are you alright? What happened to you, Ron? I followed you when you ran out of the Great Hall after the battle, and I saw Yaxley come out and curse you, and Madam Pomfrey said you'd been hit with a terrible curse, but you don't look any different, and...I'm just so worried," she finished lamely.
Sure you don't want to stick with Ron? a sly voice whispered in her head. Who else would put up with your mouth?
Ron finally looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. Unbidden, the image of the Horcrux Ron came to her head, smoky and malevolent. She suppressed a shudder.
"Well," he said hesitantly. "When Yaxley raised his wand, I reckon I thought I was a goner. Lost my wand duelling with Greyback, see. But then Yaxley, he just started screaming about how I was a blood traitor, my whole family was blood traitors, and...and I wouldn't be passing on such ideas to another horde of Weasley brats...and then he cursed me with..." Ron mumbled a few words after that. His face was red as a radish.
Hermione leaned forward. "What was that? Ron, you don't have to be embarrassed. You can tell me."
Ron cleared his throat and, fixing his eyes firmly over her shoulder, whispered, "Coleus nullum."
Hermione's eyebrows nearly hit her hairline as she translated the Latin. Her cheeks began to redden, too. "But that means "no testicles", doesn't it?" She looked steadily at her hands, not daring to look at Ron.
He exhaled noisily. "Yeah. That's what Pomfrey said. It means the son of a bitch castrated me, alright?" He looked so miserable, so defeated, Hermione couldn't help but to overcome her embarrassment and reach out for his hand again.
"Can they fix it? Is there a cure?" She still couldn't look him in the eye. She usually tried not to even think about the fact that Ron had a penis. Actually talking about his bits was right out.
"Not bloody likely, with that kind of Dark Magic. But she's going to start me on this potion in a few weeks to replace the tes...tesperone? testopren?"
"Testosterone?"
"Yeah, the stuff that makes me like girls and get muscles, Pomfrey said it usually comes from...you know, down there, but they can give me a potion to replace it. It takes a few weeks to brew, but I reckon I'll be okay til then."
He paused, squeezed Hermione's hand meaningfully, then said more softly, "But she also said I'll never be a father, and I guess that's the worst of it for me. Always wanted a kid or five, yeah?"
Hermione blanched. "Five?"
"Well, not like it matters now. But yeah, I always wanted a family, and what witch is going to ever marry me, knowing I can't give her a baby?"
He was watching her reaction closely now, and Hermione wished she were anywhere, anywhere, but where she was now with Ron's fragile hopes in the palm of her sweating hand. She made herself answer calmly. "Please don't think that way, Ron. Many witches don't want children at all, so maybe they'd find it a blessing to never have to worry about birth control."
"But...you want children, don't you?" he said baldly. "I've heard you say so."
Hermione bit her lip. "Well...it's true, I suppose. I've always wanted children, but..." She gave up dancing around the particulars. "But Ron, please stop worrying about that, alright? We're seventeen, and we've only kissed the one time--it's far too early to even be thinking about that sort of thing. Whatever happens between us, it won't have anything to do with your future ability to father children, I promise."
"But you're the only girl I've ever thought about having a future with, Hermione. I always thought we had something special, you know?"
Again, she forced herself to answer lightly. "We do have something special, Ron, but I'm not thinking about marrying anyone right now. We've only had one kiss--let's just see where that leads, okay?" She smiled reassuringly, hoping to hell she'd said just enough not to depress him further, but not so much that she'd encouraged his advances overmuch.
He looked doubtfully at her and said, "Okay...but most witches and wizards get married pretty young. I'm not proposing or anything,"--and here his blush returned with a vengeance--"but I just wanted you to think about it, I guess."
Mercifully, the arrival of the house-elves with the breakfast cart saved her from a reply. She stood up, tugging her hand away from Ron's so she could grab the cane. "Looks like it's time for breakfast. I'd better get back to my bed." She turned around to leave, then turned back to him as if pulled on a string. "I'm sorry all this has happened to you, Ron. You didn't deserve this."
She meant more than the spell, or Fred.
Author's Note: It's been a long time since I took Latin, so forgive please any butchery of the language. The butchery of Ron's unfortunate genitalia, however, is not subject to change. Mwahahahaha
Chapter 3: Victims
Genres: Romance/Drama/Angst
Word count: 1,728
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Graphic gore, cursing (thus far)
Summary: After the Final Battle, Hermione agrees to an unusual request in order to help Snape survive a curse.
As she began the slow trek to Ron's bed, Hermione was suddenly grateful for the foot injury that bought her some time. She'd nearly vaulted off the bed in her haste to find out what was the matter with him, but now she had no idea what she was actually going to say to him.
The problem was the kiss.
No, she told herself. Be honest, you're the problem. If you hadn't been so damn grateful, you wouldn't be in this spot.
For as long as she could remember, she'd been teased mercilessly for her intelligence, her bossiness, her unfortunate hair and teeth. She'd never expected that anyone would ever notice plain, brainy Hermione Granger.
But Ron had. One day, early in her third year, she'd looked up from a book and caught Ron staring at her across the common room. He had stared at her many times before. Sometimes with awe at one of her off-the-wall solutions. Sometimes with fond exasperation at her bookish habits. Sometimes with devious good fun when they were about to pull off some insane scheme.
But that time there was an awareness that had never been there before, and she'd fought the sudden urge to cross her arms over her chest. She'd begun her menstrual cycle a few months before then, and her breasts, which had been mere bumps before, had grown to a respectable handful each. It still startled her sometimes when she encountered them as she dressed, hanging there like heavy fruit. Or when she got out of the shower and saw a woman looking back at her in the mirror, water sluicing between her breasts and over her belly, right down to the modest thatch between her legs.
She'd felt like Ron noticed all of that, in that subtle way he had that made him so good at chess. He was always looking for the things nobody else saw. And that day he saw her. She'd finally looked away, endless seconds later, and things were never the same between them.
She'd never noticed Ron like that before, but since he was so kind as to look her way, she decided to look at him right back. It was a mixed bag: He was smart, loyal, brave (of course), lanky and graceful, with piercing blue eyes. But he was also lazy, insensitive, and insecure from living in the shadow of both Harry and his big brothers.
Still, though: he'd noticed her. He was her friend, he was going to be a good man, and he was attracted to her. For the longest time, she thought that would be good enough for her.
But it wasn't, and the moment she'd lost her head and kissed him in front of the Room of Requirement, she'd known that it never would be. She needed more. She needed to be with a man she loved back, who made her body burn with arousal. All she'd felt when she'd kissed Ron--along with her fierce pride that he'd finally learned to care about the house-elves--was a faint nausea at his bad breath. He'd been a horrible kisser, too.
And now here she was, on her way to his bed, trying to figure out when it would be okay to tell her grieving best friend that she'd give anything to take back that one mad kiss. It would be so much simpler if he weren't her best friend. If she didn't love him like a brother. But he was. She did. And she didn't have a clue what to do about it.
She stopped and leaned against a bed. She was halfway there, and her foot was throbbing so much that she could feel it through the numbing charm. She wondered again how Ron had been injured, since the only thing she could see wrong with him was grief. She fought down a wave of anguish, thinking about Fred. Later. She'd deal with that later. Right now she had to focus on Ron.
Hermione stood up straight again, biting her lip at the jab of pain from her foot, and got moving. All too soon she was at his bedside and sank gratefully into a chair. It was still warm from the previous occupant.
"Hullo, Hermione," he said softly, still picking at the thread on his sheet. His sandy lashes nearly swept his cheeks; he still wouldn't look at her. She reached out gently and covered his hand with her own. He stilled, then turned his hand over grasped her fingers tightly. His breathing became harsh. Not crying, but not okay.
The next minute pulsed with uncomfortable silence. Finally, Hermione offered timidly, "I'm so sorry about Fred."
Ron's lips thinned to a line, and Hermione wished mightily for her wand so she could conjure a privacy screen around them. She remembered the way Snape's worn black boot had pushed the wand toward her. His foot had dragged a dark path in the dew. She shook her head. Focus.
Ron mastered himself and said, "Yeah. Me too. Talked about it a bit with Mum--she was just here. She wanted to stay last night, but I told her I was fine. Told her to go back home and...you know, be with family. She and Dad'll have to. Um. Plan Fred's funeral, I guess." He let go of Hermione's hand and rubbed at one eye with the heel of his palm. "So she came back this morning to make sure I'm alright."
"Are you alright? What happened to you, Ron? I followed you when you ran out of the Great Hall after the battle, and I saw Yaxley come out and curse you, and Madam Pomfrey said you'd been hit with a terrible curse, but you don't look any different, and...I'm just so worried," she finished lamely.
Sure you don't want to stick with Ron? a sly voice whispered in her head. Who else would put up with your mouth?
Ron finally looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. Unbidden, the image of the Horcrux Ron came to her head, smoky and malevolent. She suppressed a shudder.
"Well," he said hesitantly. "When Yaxley raised his wand, I reckon I thought I was a goner. Lost my wand duelling with Greyback, see. But then Yaxley, he just started screaming about how I was a blood traitor, my whole family was blood traitors, and...and I wouldn't be passing on such ideas to another horde of Weasley brats...and then he cursed me with..." Ron mumbled a few words after that. His face was red as a radish.
Hermione leaned forward. "What was that? Ron, you don't have to be embarrassed. You can tell me."
Ron cleared his throat and, fixing his eyes firmly over her shoulder, whispered, "Coleus nullum."
Hermione's eyebrows nearly hit her hairline as she translated the Latin. Her cheeks began to redden, too. "But that means "no testicles", doesn't it?" She looked steadily at her hands, not daring to look at Ron.
He exhaled noisily. "Yeah. That's what Pomfrey said. It means the son of a bitch castrated me, alright?" He looked so miserable, so defeated, Hermione couldn't help but to overcome her embarrassment and reach out for his hand again.
"Can they fix it? Is there a cure?" She still couldn't look him in the eye. She usually tried not to even think about the fact that Ron had a penis. Actually talking about his bits was right out.
"Not bloody likely, with that kind of Dark Magic. But she's going to start me on this potion in a few weeks to replace the tes...tesperone? testopren?"
"Testosterone?"
"Yeah, the stuff that makes me like girls and get muscles, Pomfrey said it usually comes from...you know, down there, but they can give me a potion to replace it. It takes a few weeks to brew, but I reckon I'll be okay til then."
He paused, squeezed Hermione's hand meaningfully, then said more softly, "But she also said I'll never be a father, and I guess that's the worst of it for me. Always wanted a kid or five, yeah?"
Hermione blanched. "Five?"
"Well, not like it matters now. But yeah, I always wanted a family, and what witch is going to ever marry me, knowing I can't give her a baby?"
He was watching her reaction closely now, and Hermione wished she were anywhere, anywhere, but where she was now with Ron's fragile hopes in the palm of her sweating hand. She made herself answer calmly. "Please don't think that way, Ron. Many witches don't want children at all, so maybe they'd find it a blessing to never have to worry about birth control."
"But...you want children, don't you?" he said baldly. "I've heard you say so."
Hermione bit her lip. "Well...it's true, I suppose. I've always wanted children, but..." She gave up dancing around the particulars. "But Ron, please stop worrying about that, alright? We're seventeen, and we've only kissed the one time--it's far too early to even be thinking about that sort of thing. Whatever happens between us, it won't have anything to do with your future ability to father children, I promise."
"But you're the only girl I've ever thought about having a future with, Hermione. I always thought we had something special, you know?"
Again, she forced herself to answer lightly. "We do have something special, Ron, but I'm not thinking about marrying anyone right now. We've only had one kiss--let's just see where that leads, okay?" She smiled reassuringly, hoping to hell she'd said just enough not to depress him further, but not so much that she'd encouraged his advances overmuch.
He looked doubtfully at her and said, "Okay...but most witches and wizards get married pretty young. I'm not proposing or anything,"--and here his blush returned with a vengeance--"but I just wanted you to think about it, I guess."
Mercifully, the arrival of the house-elves with the breakfast cart saved her from a reply. She stood up, tugging her hand away from Ron's so she could grab the cane. "Looks like it's time for breakfast. I'd better get back to my bed." She turned around to leave, then turned back to him as if pulled on a string. "I'm sorry all this has happened to you, Ron. You didn't deserve this."
She meant more than the spell, or Fred.
Author's Note: It's been a long time since I took Latin, so forgive please any butchery of the language. The butchery of Ron's unfortunate genitalia, however, is not subject to change. Mwahahahaha