The Time In Between

Chapter 9: Bittersweet

Hermione lay on her bunk, staring up at the roof of the tent. Guilty tears streamed down her face. She tried to catalog all of the different types of tears she had cried over the past two months: lonely, angry, sad. She was surprised she had any tears left at all to cry. But, this time, her tears were for Harry, not for Ron. She felt horrible about his wand. She could sense his restrained anger when he took her wand from her so he could guard the tent. Going to Godric's Hollow had been just as bad, if not worse, then infiltrating the Ministry. They had just barely escaped. She was still concerned for Harry; he had been out of it for so long. She would just sleep for a little bit then go outside to relieve him.

She didn't sleep well. Her dreams were of their escape from Bathilda's house. The horrible smell, the vicious snake, the feeling of impending doom. Hermione tried to scream out in her dream but her voice was lost. She would wake herself up only to fall back asleep into that same dream. Somewhere, she thought she could hear Harry calling her. He sounded so far away. It was with a start that Hermione realized he was just outside, not far away at all. She jumped off her bunk, looking for her wand before remembering that Harry had it. She dashed outside the tent, expecting the worst. Instead, she was face to face with a ghost.

He was back. She took him in like a thirsty man drinking his first glass of water. He looked horrible, which pleased her. He had lost weight and while he no longer had the sling on his arm, his hand was bandaged. Dark smudges were under his eyes but she had gotten used to seeing those. She walked slowly toward him. She was afraid if she moved too quickly he might disappear. He was holding his arms up slightly, like he was expecting her to run into them. That was when she snapped. She saw red. How dare him! How dare he think he could walk back in here and think everything would be forgiven, everything would be as it was before. Without thinking, she launched herself at him, not caring that she probably looked like a lunatic—he hadn't been around to see her says when she had looked even worse.

Ron was on his knees, still holding the sword in his hands, tears streaming down his face. His breath was coming in gasps and he fought to control it. His whole body was shaking. He had finally paid his penance for leaving them, for leaving her. He heard Harry speaking to him, making out only a few phrases: "like a sister", "I thought you knew","cried every night." It didn't matter now. He should have known all of those things before. He should have trusted in his feelings for her. He should have told her his feelings for her.

The twisted images of Harry and Hermione had been the physical manifestation of the horrible things the horcrux had said to him. It had frightened Ron but what had frightened him even more was his response to it. As he had gotten closer to the locket, ready to destroy it, he had felt it inside him. It sounded bizarre but he couldn't describe it any other way. That small bit of Tom Riddle had made a last attempt to prevent part of his soul from being destroyed. It had felt like a surge of power and it was enough to make him pause a fraction of a second before he brought the sword down on top it. Then there was nothing.

He was following Harry back through the woods, back to where their tent was. Every step he took was taking him closer to Hermione which excited him but also filled him with trepidation. He knew Hermione well, more than she thought he did. He could be sure that forgiveness wouldn't come easy. Ron knew nothing of what had passed during the months of his absence. He didn't know any of the hardships they had endured, any of the challenges that they had faced. He could be sure, though, that Hermione would hold a grudge. She was an expert at grudge holding. She held a grudge against Harry this past school year just because he turned out to be better at Potions that she was. Or the Half-Blood Prince did anyway.

They had just reached a clearing and Harry was calling for Hermione. Even Harry had seemed excited at the prospect of their reunion. She came out of the tent, looking like she had just woken up. Her hair was wild and her clothes looked slightly rumpled. His breath caught at that sight of her because as disheveled as she looked, she was still beautiful to him. His brow furrowed slightly as he took in some injuries she had to her hand and some scratches and bruises to her face. Now that he looked at Harry a little closer, he seemed to also have similar injuries. There was a story there, he thought.