chapter two
It's raining outside.
Loud noise of raindrop landing on the roof almost blocking the noise of living. At least, that's what Ron thinks when he lies in bed and let his thought floats away while his eyes remain on the closed window. He did not open it. Let the poorly dim light from the outside stays where it meant to be. And let the darkness surround his own.
What is he on about? Ranting random shit as he laying on his bed like a fucking disabled.
The bed makes a creaking noise when he shifts, rolls over so that his eyes are now on the wall in front of the bed. Plain white. There used to be some of the pictures hanging there, he idly recalls, cute one, with magic creatures and witches doodlings and even some of the photo they took together. He remember trying to convince Hermione to hang some of the quidditch-related things there, as it always his passion, but his wife said it would be a better idea not displaying the whole broomstick and quidditch uniform on the wall, otherwise it would make it looks more like a messy, open wadrobe than a decorative space. Beside, two things seemed just so out of place if they suddenly appear out of nowhere and stay on their white wall like that. But as an airheaded he was, he simply just continue to agrued, stood his ground, not once backed up to think what could be the most effective solution possible of this circumstance. And they fought.
Over small, unnecessary things like that.
From what should be hanging on the wall, what colour should the kitchen be, what time should they have dinner, what kind of plants they want to get, how often should they come to vist Harry's, where should they went for dinning out, ... Many things like that.
He wasn't awared at first, how much his wife had to make it sounds reasonable the thing obviously is for him to understand, how much his wife has to bear his annoying arrogance and overly confidence just because he gets to be an Auror, how much it has been hard when he makes it sounds ridiculously clear that his demands and needs gets to be met first. He wasn't awared at first, how much she had been through, wasn't awared of the culprit that caused the tired expression on her face, that always pull the corner of her smile down and press it hard on a flat line, leaving her no rooms for the once remained smiles and grins.
He wasn't then, but he is now. And he fucking hate himself for that, despite himself for have been such a morron to the dearest person of his life, disgust himself for taking everything she gives for granted, for becoming such a suffocation that thwarted the oxygen out of her lungs and make her suffer.
It's peace now. Felt like a long time after everything settled down. Everything has gone back to its usual pace. Yet she still have to fight for herself. For the right that she always had, for the break that she always deserved, ... and for the love, that she can no longer bears.
Is it really love? Is it really love, that makes her willing to sacrifice that much over an ordinary person? Is that really love that blinded her eyes, that trapped her in this hellish place, that keep her from doing things for her own sake?
He doesn't know. He never knows. He once thought that he knows her, has captured every single details on her face, has been familar with every small signals express her feelings that sometimes Hermione herself doesn't even notice. He thought that by now, he has done such a great work of bonding them together, and all those time that they fight alongside has become such invincible ground that holds their relationship that can never fall apart.
He thought wrong.
He never once thinks about her origin. He never once considers her sacrifice, about the Muggle life she has left, for his sake. It has always been her choice to leave, for her own good, but she chosed to stay, and he blindly overlooked.
Is it really love? He thought again, crumbling in his own humanoid shell, cover his eyes so that the memories won't flood his mind every once he laid his eyes on the house she used to live, on the bed they used to shared. Is it really love, that makes the love of his life suffers and yearns for salvation?
The silence of the house laughs at him.
+++
" so, "
The voice of the man comes with a soft sigh makes his ears twitched. Ron's gaze remain still on the cup of coffee, as he doesn't have that much wants to lift his head up and meet that pair of eyes that he knows would only filled with concern and worry. Of course there won't be any judgement in those pair of emerald, what is he thinking? It's Harry Potter's eyes, after all.
It's his best mate's eyes.
" .... you want to talk about it? "
The carefulness betrays by Harry's gentle voice almost convince him to have an outbrust. He's sure that if they go back to a few years, maybe the younger version of him would when he was made to face with such situation. But right now, in the present time, that eagerness to prove himself right fades into nothingness, even turns to some sense of embarrassment and shame.
" ... We splited up. " He said, moving the small spoon inside the cup, mixing the dark brown liquid that reminds him of Hermione's eyes. For a moment, he considers buying another cup of plain black coffee, just so that distance memories of two cups of cappuccino would leave his mind alone.
" ... i'm sorry about that. "
The small spoon hits the cup, making a small 'clack' sound. Dark brown liquid held onto the metal spoon when he pulls it out, lingering on the surface until gravity force them apart. He place the spon onto the plate, and bring the cup up to his lips so he can have the very first thing to fill his empty stomach, though he has been warned about all consequence of his act. Well, the person who does that isn't here anymore, and guess what? In hindsight, he knows that the act of his only express silent rebelion, a small version of outbrust that he allows himself to have, one that, deep down inside he would never admit, just serve purely for the purpose of pleading for her to go back.
Evevtually, he was able to bring himself up to look directly in Harry's eyes. The friend of him looks even more anxious than himself, fingers wrap around the white cup, also imitate his action by looking into it, staring to his reflection.
" You know ... " Harry words were uncertain, and his tone was small. Something reminds him of the first train he had back in the days they just got to Hogwarts, of the past that he longs to go back. It's almost supprisng that after many years, and even when now they've fully grown into an adult, Ron still can see that friendly, shy little friend through Harry's eyes. Years of practice couldn't change the good nature of his mate, and Ron was glad he had Harry to reminds him of the connection that their long gone past had with this flowling present he just found himself lost in without Hermione's presence.
It's not like he couldn't talk to his family, or Ginny, or George, but he is afraid of metting their disappointing, pitiful- anything that just make him want to curl up even further in his shell - that their eyes may or maynot have. The answer must be the later. He knows. He's just scared of sensing that gleam inside their look. He does not want to burden them more. They've had enough things to worry about.
They stay silent for a while. Ron's focus was back on the cup of coffee, while Harry struggling to find the right words.