Hello!

Next instalment here. I want to profusely apologise, because I know I said I was going to post soon, and it didn't happened in the end. I know what it is to be waiting for a chapter you are expecting, so if that was the case of any of you out there, really, sorry! I hope you like this one anyway. One chapter -or two, not sure- more to go.

As always, thanks to my lovely beta Steph! She's missing in combat again, so any mistakes you spot, my fault and only mine. Sorry in advance! ^_^

And especial thanks to the lovely HipogriffLover (yes, the incredible author of Love Hurts and A Blossoming Courtship), whose inspiration played a big part in this chapter (aka I stole a paragraph from her, lol).

Take care,

Madelaine

PS: Of course, standard disclaimers apply still. If only… *sighs*

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NOT EXACTLY RIGHT

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The London streets are so crowded today that I wonder if there's some sort of festival going on.

As I try not to bump into anyone, I check the time again. I was late ten minutes ago.

Last night, as I was in the kitchen making dinner, Ron's voice came out of the fireplace. He Flooed me to ask if we could have a couple of drinks tonight, adding hastily that everything was ok before I could even ask. He just wanted to have a few drinks with his best mate, he said.

He was right. It has been a while, so I agreed.

When I finally reach the door of the pub, I realise that perhaps I was overreacting. This place is ten times as crowded. I spot Ron's head at a table on the corner. He gestures to let me know where he is. It wasn't necessary; I've spent half my life next to that head.

“Hello, mate,” he greets me. “You're a bit late, were you busy? You could have said -”

“No, no, it's ok,” I cut in, noticing his awkward posture and face. No, everything's definitely not ok. “The streets were so crowded; it took me forever to get here.”

“You could have Apparated,” he says half amused, half annoyed. He was raised a wizard, he just doesn't understand.

“Ron, it's a ten-minute walk from here. And, just so you know, it's good to walk once in a while.”

He shakes his head, amused. “You're such a Muggle, Boy Who Conquered,” he says with a smirk. Boy Who Conquered. I stifle a sigh. And here I thought there couldn't be anything worse than Chosen One.

The waitress, a beautiful blonde with the tightest clothing ever, and some other obvious assets, comes to take our order. I'm no expert on this field, but I know she's openly flirting with me. It's not that I particularly like it -that has never changed over the years- but it's a good change to know that she isn't trying to get the attention of Harry Potter. In Muggle London I'm just a regular bloke.

I follow her with my eyes as she leaves. There's something familiar in her…

When I turn to Ron again, he's smirking.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, still smiling. “Only that for a moment I thought she was going to snog you right here.”

“Ron,” I warn, a little uncomfortable. He's still Ginny's brother, even if it's been almost two months since Ginny and I went back to being friends… or almost friends.

“What?” he insists, visibly amused by my blushing. “It's not like you were ogling her as she walked away …”

Oh, Merlin.

“I wasn't looking at her like that, Ron.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, this time a little more serious. “But maybe you should, mate.”

I look at him, wondering if I'm hearing him correctly. It's not like he was happy about my breaking his sister's heart, but I never thought he would encourage me to look at other women. But then again, perhaps he's a better friend than I am.

The waitress' return with our drinks saves me from answering. When she winks at me, I can almost hear Ron laughing.

“I wasn't looking at her like that,” I insist. “It's just that she has-”

“Hermione's hair.”

“Yeah,” I say, still looking at the waitress' hair. That was it. The hair. The waitress has Hermione's hair, only a different style and a different colour. “But…”

“…she's not Hermione, is she?”

“Of course she's not,” I chuckle, still observing the waitress. “She's blonder,” I point out. “Hermione's shade is more natural, with those beautiful lighter strands in the summer.”

When I look back at Ron, he's staring at me. I'm about to ask what I missed, but then the last thirty seconds and what just transpired comes to me. I feel caught and exposed, and I can't fathom whether he's noticed something out of place in what I said.

“Yes, I know,” he finally says, oddly quiet, taking a sip of his beer. “She could never compete with Hermione.”

So that's it. Is that why I'm sitting here with my best friend tonight? Or could he possibly know…?

Ron doesn't explain further, so I decide to change the subject, for both our sakes. He'll tell me, in time. That's Ron Weasley's way.

“Well, tell me then Ron, how's everyone?” I try lamely, but I'm honest. I haven't visited the Burrow that much since the break up.

“They're fine,” he says, still quiet but past the awkward moment. “Well, you know Dad's being busy with the Ministry rebuild and all. I haven't seen him so happy in his life.”

“I know. He deserves it so much, Ron.”

“Yeah,” and the smile that forms on his face talks of a son's pride. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says, his voice suddenly leaking excitement again. “Dad told me that Auror training could start in just two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” I say, suddenly excited, too. Ron and I had a long talk about what we wanted to do after New Year's. He had been sure that, after all the horrors and the fighting they had to endure, he would pursue a Quidditch career, something he had been secretly considering since Weasley had been King of Gryffindor, what seemed to be from another life. But now, he said, the thought seemed alien and shallow. He wanted to be an Auror.

I understood him so well. I made the same decision.

“We're in for hell, mate,” Ron says, his tone humorous. “Or that's what I've been told. If we start the last week of February, we won't have a break until almost Christmas!”

I laugh, too. “Yeah, but I don't think that we, of all people, will find training against the Dark Forces that bad.”

“No, not at all.”

I know I have to ask about her sooner or later.

“And your mum?”

He looks at me, and his expression falls.

“She's fine,” he finally says, and I only nod. “Most of the time, that is,” he continues. “It's harder for her. Sometimes she still calls Fred along with George,” he tries to smile through his own grief. “I still look behind George when he Apparates, you know.”

As he spoke, his eyes got lost somewhere behind his glass. And when he raises his head and looks at me again, the lump in my throat is choking me, so I take my own glass and drink.

He seems to understand. You're not best friends with someone for what feels all your life for nothing.

“It will get better, Harry,” he says. “For all of us.”

Full of something that feels a lot like pride, I smile at the man in front of me, the man Ronald Weasley has become. I don't think he knows how grateful I am to whichever higher beings made him befriend me. He likes to remind me of the fact that, for once in his life, he saved my life that day at the lake. He doesn't even suspect that that wasn't the first time he'd done it. He saved my life years ago, the moment he offered his friendship along with his hand on that first train ride to Hogwarts.

“I know,” and I nod distractedly, not really comfortable about my next inquiry. “And…well, how is Ginny?”

He looks at me, finding my hesitance kind of amusing.

“She's a tough one, my sister. Just don't ask her to be chummy yet. She loves you, you know.”

Breaking up with Ginny was exactly as hard as I had expected. Because the first time I did, back at Dumbledore's funeral, I had had real reasons for my decision. Stupid noble ones, perhaps, but at least they were reasons. I wanted her safe, and I was convinced that she would never be if we were involved.

But now there was no Voldemort, no danger, no war. So how do you tell someone you care for, someone who has loved you her whole life in some way or another, that your only reason for leaving her is that you don't love her the way she loves you anymore? She stared at me, shock written all over her features. But, like that day at Hogwarts, she didn't say much. She asked me, so softly, if it was something wrong with her. I promised it wasn't. She said `Good,' and then she asked no more, as if she didn't need further explanation.

As if she knew.

Everyone was surprised by this turn of events, especially Mrs. Weasley.

Well, not everyone.

Mr. Weasley remained silent when I announced it, watching his wife rush up to his daughter's bedroom. `I'm sorry,' I said. But he came next to me, and put his hands on my shoulders. `Don't be sorry for being honest, Harry,' he said. And I let him hug me. I had never envied Ron more than in that moment.

“You don't have to be sorry, Harry,” I hear Ron's voice, bringing me back from my own thoughts. “You were honest with her. And even if she's hurting, she appreciates that.”

I nod silently.

“Harry,” he says, or commands, I'm not sure. “We can't choose who we love.”

Merlin.

“No,” I say, unable to look at him at the moment. “We can't.”

I wonder if I look as scared as I feel, under Ron's look. “Harry, I… I didn't ask you to come here just to have a drink.”

“I know.”

He looks grave now. Something's wrong and I'm starting to really worry. Because I know it's about Hermione.

“I think,” he begins, only to continue after a pause to take a breath. And gather courage, it seems. “I think I should break up with Hermione.”

I couldn't have been more stunned if Ron had told me he was running away to the circus. I can't think; I can't speak. I don't know what to say. To buy myself some time, I take a long pull of my bitter, realising I'm going to need another pint if the conversation is to go on in this direction. To my luck, or perhaps not, Hermione's doppelganger comes up with a fresh pint, breaking the profound silence.

“Looks like you could use another one, love,” she says, her accent rudely reminding me she is definitely not Hermione.

Deciding to get it over with, I force myself to speak. “What are you talking about, Ron?”

Ron places his glass with precision on the table. Someone bumps into him from behind, nearly rendering his action useless, and spilling some over his hand. He starts to reach for his wand, forgetting we're in Muggle London. I wave my hand surreptitiously and the mess is gone. He finally seems to realize.

“Bloody pub's overcrowded,” Ron mumbles, and I can tell he's going to start going off about Muggles.

“Don't change the subject, Ron.” A few moments ago, I was stalling, but now I'm dying to know.

Ron avoids looking me in the eye, perhaps afraid I am going to hex him, but I'm really not, I promise.

Not when I feel like the answer to the universe could be in what he says next. Will it be the beginning or end of mine? On the one hand, I want the world for Ron -that goes without saying. But on the other, I can't help but want the world for me. Somehow, I don't think they're the same thing.

“I… I don't know what to do anymore, mate,” he says, playing with his pint. “I feel like I should just save her the trouble and break things off.”

“Save her the trouble?” I'm astounded. “What are you talking about, Ron?”

This time he does looks up. He looks miserable.

“I don't think we've ever, you know…you and me,” he seems nervous. “We've never talked, really talked, about Hermione and me.”

I nod in silence. It's true. Ron and I have always talked about many things, Hermione among them, of course. It couldn't be otherwise, her being our girl. But once she became more his girl than mine, the fact that he now knows her in a different way it's been carefully omitted. I just didn't want to stir the depths; Ron's reasons, I don't know.

“Harry, Hermione…” he trails off, as if looking for the right words. “I knew I liked her before the war, and during the war… but these months with her have been something I wasn't expecting, mate. I never thought…It's thanks to her that I have been able to cope with everything. She is everything.”

I can do this, I repeat to myself while I try to remember that he is my best friend, and that's what he needs now. I better not think of what I need.

“I'm sorry, Ron,” I manage somehow. “But I think I still don't understand. Why would you want to break things off then?”

He frowns, and turns his eyes to the little hole on the table he's been digging on with his nails.

“Because she doesn't love me, Harry.”

I don't think I've heard correctly. But I must have, because I feel dizzy, and there's a buzz in my ears that has nothing to do with the overcrowded pub. My brain is shooting questions in all directions. What's happening, really happening, inside their perfect relationship? Is it like it was with Ginny? Has Hermione ever hinted she doesn't love Ron? Is Hermione talking about some other guy? Are they back to their nasty bickering again?

Does she…?

No. I can't go there. And no. She doesn't.

“Of course she loves you, Ron. You know Hermione. She wouldn't be with you if she didn't.”

I see him smile a little.

“Well, I guess she does. But Harry, what I feel for her… she doesn't feel the same. I'm not that oblivious anymore, mate.”

“I don't know what to say, Ron.” And it's true. I don't. “Hermione has never really said something about you two as a couple. But you guys seem to be doing ok… I mean, you look happy.”

“So did you and Ginny.” And he sighs. “We are happy, Harry. I know I am, and I don't want to think she's unhappy either. It's just…like sometimes she has to remind herself we're still as good as we were at the beginning, right after the war.”

Merlin, Ron. Please, just stop.

“She seems…distracted lately. And always busy now. Lately we'd been bickering a lot too, and when I say a lot, you can imagine what I'm talking about. I thought that perhaps she could have met another bloke or something,” he says, and I join him in his fears, “but I know it's not that. So perhaps it's just me.”

I look at him, his shoulders hunched, his eyes on the table, his fingers distractedly touching his glass. And for the first time since we started The Talk, I find myself genuinely wishing they could work it out. Wishing that of course he's good enough for her and for any other woman in the world. But then I remember it's Hermione. The only woman in the world, for both of us.

“Now, there's this book Dad bought for Mum in a Muggle bookstore a while ago. It's about grieving and such,” here he clears his throat uncomfortably. “I took a look at it once and then couldn't take my hands off the bloody thing, and there's a chapter that got me really thinking. It's about how people sometimes take rushed decisions in times of despair, or after difficulties, survival, and other stuff like that, and I can't stop thinking about this. When exactly did Hermione and I start dating? I mean, we began our… whatever it was, right after you told us about the bloody prophecy, Harry. And then, when did we have our first kiss? Right before you went off to get killed by Voldemort! If that doesn't tell something's wrong here, then I don't know what can…”

I don't know what to think, least of all say, so I just listen to his venting. He looks like he needs it.

“Perhaps,” he says miserably, “she has finally come to her senses. Perhaps she has finally seen I'm not good enough for her, that I…”

“Ron,” I abruptly interrupt, trying not to voice my real thoughts, which are shouting `you don't know her at all' at this moment. “I think it's time for you to stop thinking that everything is about you.” He looks up, and I realise I must have revealed more than I wanted to, because I can read surprise and hurt there. I sigh, and try again. “What I'm trying to say, Ron, is that you need to stop thinking you're not good enough for her.”

“But maybe I'm not, Harry. I've always thought…” he stops, hesitant to go on, and I suspect where he's going. I don't know how much longer it will be until I come up with a lame excuse and walk away from the table. “You know, the stuff you saw when I destroyed the Horcrux. I always thought she would choose you in the end.”

Enough.

“But she didn't, did she? She chose you over me and over everyone. Perhaps you are not perfect, and perhaps you two are too different, and perhaps sometimes you can't understand her and she definitely can't understand you. But for some reason, it's you she is with. Not me, not Viktor, not anyone. Doesn't that tell you anything at all?”

It's only when the last word has left my lips that I realise what I've just done. Ron's looking at me like he's seeing me for the first time. After all, I practically spat on his face out of repressed bitterness. I feel my face flush, and before I can mutter some sort of apology for my outburst, he smiles at me.

“I've always been thick, Harry,” he starts, and I don't know what's going on. Has he finally realised? Have I lost the best friendship I've ever had for good? Damned pints. They never did me any good. “I'm sorry you have to get so frustrated with me.” He shifts on his chair, looking uncomfortable. “I don't really tell you this often, but you know you're my brother, right? The best friend anyone could have.”

Merlin Ron, please, stop.

“And you know what? I think you're right, Harry,” he says smiling, looking hopeful now. “Perhaps she doesn't want me to be perfect. Perhaps she's just feeling stressed lately, or post-war anxiety is striking back, or something like that.” I nod, and I think I mutter something, but I can't exactly tell what. “I do want this to work out. We'll make it,” he reassures himself.

He is so happy at his revelation that fails to notice my own. And it's good, because there's no way he would have missed the phoniness of my smile.

I don't think I've ever felt such loathing for anyone as I'm feeling for myself right now.

Suddenly, he looks alarmed, and tells me he's totally forgotten about something he had promised his mum to do. I say it doesn't matter, that I understand and I'm tired too, and so he rushes out of the pub, not before giving me a brief hug, thanking me again for being the best mate one could hope for, and promising I will be, of course, the godfather of their first child.

The waitress flashes me a seductive smile from the bar the moment I found myself alone. I call for another barman to pay for the pints, and leave.

Some time later, in the darkness of my flat, the uneasiness I've been feeling since Ron opened his mouth materialises into a race to the bathroom, where I finally throw away the mixed contents of my stomach and my soul.

Damned pints, indeed.