RP: Molasses

[pb_ron]

Characters: Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger.
Date: 3rd of August, 2000
Location(s): Grimmauld Place.
Summary: Ron receives a visitor.
Status/Warning: None.
Completion: Complete.

Comments

[pb_hermione]

The thing with Hermione was that she wasn't a forgetful person. She was a list-maker and a step-by-step kind of girl. Not to say that she wasn't conceptual, but she always functioned far better knowing facts and figures rather than vague generalizations of things to be understood.

So it came as sort of a shock to her when she got home from Harry's party (which, despite certain incidents, had actually been quite lovely) that she'd come home without her sweater.

Though, actually it wasn't the sweater that was the problem, it was what was on the sweater. A pin, small and silver and simple. Draco had given it to her some months back -- one of the many gifts. In all honesty, Hermione shouldn't have cared, told herself she didn't care, but things between them had been on rocky ground ever since she'd moved in. It couldn't simply be "adjusting" could it? Not after this long. And that pin...he'd asked about it last night and she'd made up an excuse before storming out of the room on some pretense.

The thing with Hermione was that she always felt obligated to try, and that meant seeing something through to the very end.

Which was what brought her back to Grimmauld place, knocking on the heavy door with a rehearsed speech for Harry on the tip of her tongue.

[pb_ron]

"All right, all right..." Ron grumbled, rising from a dusty couch.

He wasn't usually the one to answer the door, unless he had to; he felt odd taking responsibility for the house, especially when the house disliked him so earnestly. It hadn't been as bad as before lately -- honestly, no murder attempts -- but there were moments Ron felt as if the Place were perhaps considering it. Anyway, one could see why he might not want to speak for such a house; but when he was forced to, he did so as was natural.

Which meant swinging the door open with no warning, in some variant of lounge clothes -- a disgusting old shirt and floppy pants -- and though at first it was all with a smile Ron reserved for the usual visitors, this quickly disappeared in recognition of

"Hermione. Um."

Ron's tongue grew surprisingly heavy. He shifted uncomfortably. "Hullo there."

[pb_hermione]

Things usually went this way, as far as they were concerned. Murphy's law and all, though personally Hermione put no such stock in that rubbish. She had been hoping, however, that it would be Harry answering the door instead of Ron. Not that she could ask for Harry, though, her situation being what it was.

She eyed him quickly, taking in the shirt and the loose pants. Not that she'd blame him for not expecting visitors, but Hermione did have this habit of silently judging.

Quickly, she snapped him a grin to defuse the situation. "Hullo, Ron," and promptly invited herself in. Grimmauld had been like a home, once. Almost.

[pb_ron]

Ron attempted a grin, but by the time he managed it she was gone -- into Grimmauld, which hated her more than him by far.

So he followed her. Because there were no pockets to shove his fists into, he scratched the back of his head, crossing his arms with a kind of awkward tilt to the head. He knew it was his job to be civil, at most -- it was the least he could do for Harry, and all that -- but he still didn't see why it was his responsibility to accept her behavior, especially when she was obviously thinking about the urchin he was emulating at the moment, and probably -- if the past few months held true after the apology -- every other thing he'd ever done wrong.

(The event at Harry's party had reminded him of her tendency to do so; Ron wouldn't forget again for at least another few days.)

"Er. You can come in," he finally said, hoping to sound sarcastic. Instead he sounded very late. "What's... What're you doing here?"

A little more accusatory than Ron had meant, actually. "I mean. Since."

[pb_hermione]

"Oh. Um."

The place looked dull and dark again in the absence of streamers and carnival decorations, the horrific paintings back on the walls, watching her with displeased eyes. Well, they looked at everyone that way, but Hermione couldn't help but feel an added sense of venom in her direction. She knew why, obviously. Mudblood, they seemed to say. The word no longer bothered her as much as it should have. Words were just words, she told herself, and held her chin a little bit higher.

It was the words, unfortunately, that had managed to escape her. The artfully planned speech of 'I forgot my sweater and have come to get it back, please' instead turned into something like this:

"I -- I have a sweater. Red. I mean. I don't have it. I used to -- that is -- I think I left it here." No, Ron didn't have to be the only one in the position of being terrifically awkward, though Hermione wished she were still better in reflex situations.

[pb_ron]

Ron lifted his eyebrows in what could be classified as concern, but was really a desperate attempt not to look as blank as he was sure he had a second ago; what resulted was a look that resembled an accident with some sort of ridiculous facial surgery.

"Oh! That," he said, after a moment to realise he had no idea what she was talking about. (Ron of course had seen no sweater; in all truths, Kreacher had likely taken it, folded it up and put it somewhere for cleaning.) He nodded along, wagging an extended finger. "Your sweater. That. You left it here? Right. I mean -- are you sure? It's sort of... Well, it's sort of really easy to lose things in here."

[pb_hermione]

"You've seen it!" Hermione smiled for exactly a half-second, before her hopes plummeted. Of course Ron hadn't seen it. Or perhaps he'd seen it and thrown it in the bin. Not that he could have guessed on the meaning of the pin, could he? Well who else would have given her something that expensive-looking? Hermione had to take a deep breath, brushing back a hand through wild hair as she remembered that Ronald was not so devious.

"Right. Erm. I'm pretty sure I left it here, when I came for the party. I took it off before I started setting up. Do you think Kreacher has it?" And if the wicked poor dear had, Hermione had her doubts about whether or not she'd actually get it back. For once, Ron had a point -- things tended to ... disappear ... in Grimmauld.

[pb_ron]

Ron shook his head. "Err -- no."

Because he hadn't.

"Kreacher likes to keep things how he thinks they should be -- still. That sort've thing. He's probably picked it up and put it somewhere for laundry, or... Wherever. I'll..." A pause, shrugging. "I mean, I could look for it."

Technically, anyway. Ron had never been the most skilled at finding lost things; he often gave them up for astrally misplaced, or just his luck. If he'd left a sweater anywhere he'd likely make an attempt, but after an hour or so decide it was for the best; apparently Hermione wanted hers quite badly, to show up days later. Or didn't she?

"I dunno where, though," he finally admitted. "Is this a really good sweater? 'Cos if it is, you might be in for a wait."

[pb_hermione]

"Would you?" Hermione peered around the corner, curiously frowning as she scouted for Kreacher. Not that she had any hope of finding him -- he'd probably be off somewhere in a dark corner of Grimmauld, muttering to himself over a portrait of his former mistress. "I mean, I'd really appreciate it, if you would. It's very imp-- I really liked that sweater."

She began hunting, haphazardly at first, under tables and couch cushions, searching for that flash of deep red. Once, she thought she saw it, peeking out from between two chairs. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a streamer, limp and torn pitifully in half, like a bit of forgotten intestine and the only evidence that there had ever been a party in the first place. Hermione crumpled it in one hand.

"I don't suppose you know where Kreacher is, do you?" She looked over her shoulder to see if Ron was within earshot.

[pb_ron]

"That's what I just said," Ron reiterated, making a face. Even if he had no idea how to go about it, he usually said what he meant. It would lead them to bad places, of course, and a collective memory he'd been trying to forget... Difficult, when it could be said he'd first conquered Grimmauld Place by poking fun at it with Hermione. (Even the robes that had tried to strangle him had been somewhat hilarious, when they enjoyed eachother's company.)

He shrugged, opening a dark cabinet. "What's so special about it? You've always got sweaters on; bet you've got a disgusting amount of them." Ron certainly did. "Anyway, I haven't got any idea where Kreacher's gone. He's always sneaking around. Haven't really spoken to him since moving in, except one time I sat on some sort of heirloom cushion."

[pb_hermione]

She'd hoped they could avoid the topic of what exactly made this sweater so special, especially since Hermione's memory wasn't quite working the way it should with regards to her plan. She blamed the house. Always blamed the house.

"It's a very comfortable sweater and it -- matches an outfit I have," Hermione finished lamely. Hermione was never terribly concerned with her wardrobe. As long as it fit well enough and was comfortable enough to sit in for long periods of time while she studied, it was good enough for her. She noticed that it was a habit that grew worse the longer she stayed in a stationary relationship. Like all of a sudden, Hermione stopped caring quite so much.

Huffily, she peered beneath a sofa, but finding only mothballs and dust bunnies (what did Kreacher do all day if this shoddy cleaning job was the best he could manage?) Hermione sighed. "Well you're right, I hardly suppose he'd tell me where he hid it. Probably burned it because of Mudblood germs or some such." She fought the irresistible urge to kick something, lips tightening with the mention of the word. She knew it wasn't Kreacher's fault, but it didn't make the situation any less frustrating.

[pb_ron]

Ron pretended to look in the back of the cabinet, but really only moved things back and forth to look busy; now that he'd thought of it, of course, if the sweater wasn't in an obvious place it would likely be gone forever or turn up next Valentine's several sizes too small. He would have the heart to tell her so, but she looked so frustrated, and...

Well, what did he care really? If anything he should care very little how tight Hermione's mouth was getting. After all -- even if they were on better terms, Ron would still think it was stupid to get so upset over a sweater that meant nothing apart from matching something else. Matching was overrated anyway. (So was caring.)

Yeah.

(...But he found he did, still, a little.)

"Then get a new one," he finally said. "I mean, what'd you say? It's just red. It's not unusual or anything."

[pb_hermione]

"Ron, would you please be helpful for once and not ask stupid questions?" Hermione snapped, and immediately regretted it, flushing a splotchy, frustrated red. She moved toward the back of the house and strategically kept her eyes averted from Ron. Only when he wasn't visible, a second or two later, did the guilt really set in, and Hermione re-emerged, arms crossed.

"Sorry, I -- I didn't mean..."

[pb_ron]

Really?

"Find your own bloody sweater then," said Ron, closing the cabinet with a bang. He turned and looked at her for a moment, eyes firm, and waved an irritable arm in her direction. Nobody had ever said that being on good terms with Hermione meant he couldn't get angry with her; even during their best times they'd been volatile, and she was so infuriating sometimes -- saying one thing and doing another. Not to mention that it was usually when he tried hardest that she found the most to disapprove of when it came to Ron. Maybe he was more tired of it than usual.

"It's not like I care."

And her apology bounced off of him; it might as well never have existed, for all that he responded. Except -- well, perhaps there was a bit of a tired turn to his shoulders, there, and he was forced to look away after a moment sucking his lip at her.

"I reckon I could get back to what I was... To what I was doing, you know. I mean. I have got things to do." (not really.)

[pb_hermione]

"Wait."

But it wasn't necessarily directed at Ron.

Hermione heard exactly the first half of what he said, because then she began to hear humming from the back room. Scratching and muttering. The distinct scuffle of smallish feet. "Wait, be still for a second." She held up her hand and scowled as she listened for the source. It could have been rats, but the rats in Grimmauld preferred the floorboards to the walls.

Moving silently, Hermione slowly backpedaled to a broom closet (of the sweeping, not flying kind) and jerked on the handle.

There was a puff of dust and the clatter of buckets and broomsticks into the hallway. In the middle of it all was Kreacher the house elf, miserably submerged in the limp strands of a mop. He clutched something bright red to his chest with gnarled, dirty fingertips. When Hermione got over the shock of being nearly beaten to death by broom handles, she saw exactly what it was that gripped so tightly. It wasn't the sweater, but something attached to it. Something silver and floral-ish, looping designs swallowing themselves. Kreacher muttered.

"Oh Mistress, how could you have such terrible luck with boys? Terrible terrible. What a loss --! Another scorch on the Black map. Consorting with Mudbloods. Giving away your prizes precious things. Mistress will be so angry, so angry." His twisted face contorted into a smile. "But so happy she'll be with Kreacher for fetching her possesions. So beautiful bit of shine in your hair."

Hermione watched him, pale, wide-eyed, still. "Kreacher..." Even her lips looked more white than pink. "Could I have that back, please."

"Nnno!" He turned is back to her, cowering over the sweater and the pin like some possessive beast. "Stupid dirty Mudblood. Wants Mistress's things, but Kreacher won't give it to her."

[pb_ron]

Ron had opened his mouth to say something back -- likely, I don't have to listen to you, something along those lines -- but as Hermione moved he was brought back to another time altogether, one where they'd had to be in line with eachother to survive. It wasn't like absolute disgust and frustration could erase something like that, especially not when you were about to be an auror.

Ron did go still, and hushed rather magnificently; it might have been the quietest he'd been in months, actually. But then, of course, it was all ruined --

Though he didn't really understand Kreacher at first -- the elf always seemed to be saying the same thing over and over again -- after a moment Ron pieced it together, and turned to Hermione in something of a huff. "You could've told me it was Malfoy's. Then I wouldn't have wasted time helping you at all."

But he stepped forward anyway, authoritative, because there were things that Kreacher knew he shouldn't say -- of course. And there were parts of Ron that would never let anyone, nevermind Kreacher, say them aloud -- of course, of course.

"Don't you dare call her that! And let go of that pin! It's got nothing to do with Mistress. I'll kick you down the laundry chute!"

He really meant what he was saying, this time. But then Ron thought of something else.

"You know -- nevermind, Kreacher. But I reckon Master Harry'd want it more, you know."