8

Friday 21 February 2003: PM

The heavy insulated carrier bags looped over both her arms threaten to topple from Hermione's tenuous hold as she Apparates to 12 Grimmauld Place; the uneven weight of the Indian takeaway she's brought for dinner causing her to stumble a little on the top step outside the front door.

Plus, wearing these foolishly high heeled boots doesn't help my balance at all. She doesn't usually wear them to work for that very reason, but minor recklessness was apparently the theme of her day. No, the motif of her week, she revises. Her heart thumps in an annoyingly familiar accelerated rhythm as she reminisces about her brief salacious tryst with Draco last night (possibly for the thousandth time today, but who's counting?).

This is all Malfoy's fault, she decides peevishly. He'd riled her up to a state of delirious, mindless lust only to strut away without a bloody word. Leaving her hot and aching and mad as a wet hen. His wicked tongue had stripped away all her careful pretensions of civilization and rationality in a matter of seconds, reducing her to a primitive hormonal creature.

Draco is unquestionably to blame for the fact she'd taken an age to fall asleep: only to wake sweaty, disoriented and unsatisfied after a disturbingly realistic montage of explicitly raunchy dreams about him. And he's indirectly culpable for her decision to don her knee-high brown leather boots for work, because they always make her feel sexy… and he made her feel like the most desirable witch in the world yesterday evening.

Ergo: if she trips on the damned heels and breaks her neck – Draco should be held accountable for that, too. Hermione ignores the hectoring voice of her conscience reminding her about free will and taking responsibility for her own choices. Pfft.

Carefully reaching for the handle, she shrieks as the door seemingly opens of its own accord. Her jumpy nerves subside as she looks down at Kreacher, holding it open for her.

"Kreacher will help Mistress Granger bring the foreign victuals inside," he announces with a disapproving sniff, reaching out his gnarled hands for the bags. Hermione reluctantly relinquishes them to Harry's ancient house elf. It bothers her to see Kreacher struggling under the weight of the food, but Hermione knows that refusing to allow Kreacher to carry her bags would assuredly antagonize and insult him. She suspects that he is suffering from untreated arthritis, but he has refused all her tentative overtures to bring a Healer to him. Probably terrified he'll be declared unfit to serve and sent away, Hermione deduces sadly.

Kreacher also takes affront at takeaway meals being introduced into Harry's residence – the unintentional implication being that Kreacher's own cooking abilities are not up to scratch. Which is why Hermione chooses 'exotic' dishes that aren't part of Kreacher's cooking repertoire. Sighing at his intractability, Hermione hangs her new pea coat on a hook in the hallway before following the crotchety elf as he makes his laboured way to the dining room.

The interior of Grimmauld Place is manifestly different from its incorporation as the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix; it is still a little shabby, but is now scrupulously clean and neat, with fresh wallpaper and re-upholstered sofas and chairs. Most of the dubious Black family's Dark keepsakes have been removed or rendered harmless by curse-breakers, excepting Walburga Black's odious, noisy portrait. The Permanent Sticking Charm affixed to the horrid woman's likeness had proved impossible to remove, so Harry had slapped a set of metal Muggle shutters across it and screwed it shut. Crude, but effective in muffling the evil witch's foul bigoted diatribes.

With a tiny pained grunt, Kreacher hoists the two bags of food onto the end of the long wooden dining table. He liberates the pistachio and mango ice-creams from the cold bag to temporarily store in the freezer.

"Thank you, Kreacher," Hermione smiles kindly. "I'm much obliged for your assistance."

"Mistress Granger is welcome," Kreacher mumbles, not meeting her eyes as he slips away to the kitchen to retrieve serving utensils.

It is only after his departure that Hermione notices the table is set for three. Kreacher has steadfastly refused to join them at mealtimes – has Harry invited Ginny to join them after all?

A clatter of heavy feet rapidly descending the staircase answers Hermione's unspoken query. Her stomach sinks as a familiar deep voice bellows behind her.

"Ooh, Indian! Bloody ripper. Hullo, 'Mione," says Ronald Weasley, casually laying his hands on her slim hips as he busses a rough kiss on the crown of her head, before nudging her aside to rummage through the stacked takeaway containers.

"Chicken tikka – alright, I like that – lamb Rogan Josh, excellent – got plenty of coconut rice, lovely… Dunno what this green stuff is, you and Harry can have that. Hope that's garlic naan in the foil?". Turning around, Ron fails to take any cues from Hermione's bristling silence.

"Did you make sure the pork vindaloo is extra hot, 'Mione? You know I love that spicy kick," Ron grins guilelessly.

I hope it's hot enough to burn your ring out. The spiteful thought flits briefly through Hermione's upset mind.

Ignoring Ron's enthusiastic food narrative, Hermione asks tonelessly, "What are you doing here, Ron?". She registers another masculine tread on the stairs; Harry's apologetic face comes into her field of view. He lays a steadying hand on her tense forearm.

"Thought I'd drop in on Harry after our Quidditch pick-up match finished early," Ron divulges. "You two don't mind, do you?". He doesn't wait for a reply as Kreacher re-enters the dining room to lay various polished silver ladles and tongs on the table.

"Thanks, Kreach!" Ron misses the pinched look of disfavour Kreacher darts his way at the unsanctioned nickname.

I hear ya, buddy, Hermione empathizes. Speaking of which…

"Ron. Don't call him that, please," Hermione tries to keep the sting out of her request. "And please refrain from calling me 'Mione'; I've asked you to desist on numerous occasions." Stay calm, she coaches her flaring temper. Don't let him push your buttons tonight.

"But 'Mione is cute, sweetheart," Ron is oblivious to her rising tension. Hermione exhales slowly through her flared nostrils. Oh, for the love of lions…

Harry attempts to defuse the unpinned grenade spinning in front of him.

"C'mon mate – you know Hermione doesn't like it. Neither does Kreacher," Harry mildly cautions the redhead. To little avail.

Ron shrugs. "Sorry," he offers blithely, dismissing the conversation in favour of helping himself to generous servings of everything on offer – bar the palak paneer, Hermione discerns. Aka the 'green stuff'.

She'd deliberately over-catered for their supper, knowing that Harry enjoys eating any leftovers as quick luncheons; his job is demanding, and he often misses meals as a result of being time poor. But it seems that the unexpected presence of a freckled humanoid termite is putting an end to that.

Harry's soothing hand moves from her arm to her shoulder, rubbing small circles against her knotted muscles.

"Sorry, I didn't know he was coming over," Harry murmurs conciliatorily.

Hermione digs her left index finger into the furrow forming between her dark brows.

"It's fine, Harry. Let's enjoy the food before it gets cold." She offers her old friend a stoical smile.

We should be able to get through one informal supper without a huge fight, she reassures herself. They're still good friends.

They work harmoniously to dish out a hearty selection from the delicious Indian menu; Hermione yanks the tray of samosas out of Ron's hands, but she holds back from rebuking him for his greed. Eating her food slowly, she casts a dispassionate eye over Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Ron is a good-looking man – tall, fit, broad-shouldered, in the prime of young male adulthood. Clear aquamarine eyes, glossy copper-red hair, strong jawline and full lips, combined with an easygoing cheerfulness and roguish charm. Possessed of a droll sense of humour and refreshing forthrightness. Fiercely loyal to his nearest and dearest. Brave. Bright, despite his regular unmindfulness of others' emotions. Her close friend of almost a dozen years; her boyfriend for four of them, and lover for three.

Hermione's cranky heart softens as she remembers all the positive aspects of their often-tumultuous relationship. Ron is a lot of fun and she cares for him deeply… but he doesn't give her what she needs, she pensively concludes. No matter how much she'd tried to make their differing personalities complement each other – it always meant that one of them was sacrificing too much in the compromise.

Draco's barbed criticisms crawl unpleasantly into her head.

'You've been excusing Weasley's piss-poor performance in almost every aspect of his life since we were kids. And what's worse, you've been complicit in allowing his insecurity to dull your shine.'

Is Malfoy correct? Hermione fidgets anxiously in her chair. Acrid memories shuffle past like ghostly playing cards. Ron's consistent denigration of her swottish tendencies and trust in authority figures. His vehement scorn whenever she tried to shut down their more outrageous and dangerous madcap 'adventures'.

Taking her burgeoning affections for granted; his insensitivity in flaunting his over-the-top relationship with Lavender Brown. His arrogant belief that Hermione would always be waiting in the wings as his back-up plan and his jealous fury when she accepted Viktor Krum's invitation to the Yule Ball.

Expecting her to help or simply complete his homework. His laziness in consistently forgetting Hermione's birthday and their anniversaries. His entitled reliance on his mother to do his laundry and clean his room at The Burrow.

Calling me perverted for wanting to try new things in the bedroom. Hermione pushes away her plate, her stomach curdling at the poisonous recollection of their final, cataclysmic argument. It had taken appreciable courage for her to ask Ron about trying some new sexual positions and techniques. Despite her unswerving confidence in her academic and professional achievements, Hermione had felt… substandard… regarding her sexuality and ability to ask for what she wanted and needed in her sex life.

Witnessing her teenaged school mates merrily exploring their shiny new passions while she forlornly sat on the sidelines had contributed to her shyness and sense of inadequacy. She'd made the decision to hold off on the physical side of her relationship with Ron after the Battle of Hogwarts, choosing to focus on getting her accelerated NEWTs and then a fast-tracked legal education to enable her to begin working at the Ministry.

When Hermione had felt ready to have sex, she'd probably built it up excessively in her mind. Over-exposure to romantic movies, literature, music and advertising combined to leave her expecting fireworks and earthquakes and multiple shattering orgasms, Hermione meditates ruefully.

The disappointing reality of her first time engaging in sexual intercourse with Ron had been fumbled foreplay, awkwardly aligned limbs and mouths, an unfamiliar feeling of smarting intrusion, a few minutes of uncoordinated rutting, and the denouement of Ron shouting unintelligibly then collapsing heavily atop her. Hermione had just managed to push him to the side before he'd muttered his love and thanks and fallen asleep.

Leaving me achingly aroused, unsatisfied and reliant on my right hand to finish myself off. Thus, beginning a pattern that rarely deviated over the next three years. Hoping every time that Ron would sense that she needed more: more time, more touches, more words, more variation and experimentation and kisses and roleplay and whatever the hell else she wanted to try but was too lily-livered to communicate. Becoming an expert at silent, virtually motionless onanism while lying next to her snoring boyfriend in the dark.

Unacceptably pathetic, Hermione denounces. And she has been spineless and unfair for assigning blame only to Ron. Being slack in the sack cuts both ways.

The object of her narrowed contemplation looks up from devouring the last of the pork vindaloo, mopping up most of the remaining reddish juices with a torn swatch of naan bread.

"Why are you glaring at me like that, Her-mi-o-ne?" Ron emphasizes each syllable with puerile facetiousness.

Determined to avoid falling into their old dysfunctional habits, Hermione abstains from rolling her eyes at him. Kreacher enters the room bearing the dessert tray and does it for her.

The elderly house elf whips away Ron's half-sopped plate and thrusts a bowl containing green and orange ice-cream scoops in front of him with ill-disguised disgust.

"Mister Weasley is ready for dessert." Kreacher doesn't wait for a response as he dispenses two more bowls and gathers their used crockery and cutlery. He spares a last contemptuous look at Ron's unused table napkin before departing for the kitchen.

Hermione squelches a smile – Kreacher's fastidious insistence on referring to Ron as 'Mister' rather than 'Master' is tantamount to a pernicious slur. Ron merely sloughs it off like water off a duck's back.

"How has work been, Ron?" Hermione enquires pleasantly. After Ron dropped out midway through his Auror training, he'd thrown himself into becoming George's partner at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes with admirable results. A penchant for mischief certainly flourishes in the Weasley bloodline, Hermione considers with equal parts admiration and resignedness.

"Business is booming – George reckons we're going to need to hire two more staff by the end of the month if it keeps up," Ron shares with a satisfied grin.

"That's good news, mate," Harry chips in. The black-haired wizard had been the one to suggest to Ron that he consider a career in the magical retail sector; Ron had been down in the dumps for weeks after making the difficult decision to leave the Auror program, moping aimlessly around The Burrow and Hermione's flat. Harry's unwarranted guilt at encouraging Ron to join him – mingled with Ron's unspoken but persistent jealousy of Harry's fame and talents – had markedly soured their triad.

Hermione is proud of Ron for making a success of the fraternal business in his own right (he'd implemented a side line of Quidditch products, both functional and comical, and started a not-for-profit charity recycling hand-me-down Quidditch gear to poorer wizarding children), but her pride is quickly suffused by indignation and umbrage at Ron's next off-hand remark.

"Speaking of which, I'll bring round the payroll books tomorrow for you to sort out, Hermione," Ron confidently proclaims as he makes short work of his ice-cream. "George keeps nagging me about pulling my weight in the office," he sighs dramatically.

What in the name of Merlin?

"Hold your Hippogriffs, Ronald Weasley," Hermione warns in a dangerously low tone. "Since when did I commit to performing your bookkeeping for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?"

Harry's eyebrows have shot up to his head; Hermione senses his frantic metaphorical throat-cutting gestures in her peripheral vision as she furiously focuses on Ron's placid face.

"You always help me out, 'Mione." Ron is impervious to her blistering hostility. "I know you won't mind."

Draco was right – I've not only excused Ron's inadequacies and character flaws, I've encouraged them. Enabled his laziness and promoted his misplaced sense of entitlement. The insight dismays Hermione, even as it bolsters her reaction to Ron's staggering hubris.

The long room seems to shrink as Hermione rises to her booted feet, stepping to the side before carefully pushing in her dining chair. She gathers every ounce of her aplomb to speak clearly, precisely and ruthlessly.

"Ron. I love you dearly, and I always will. I want you to be happy and successful and fulfilled for the rest of your life. You've been an integral part of my existence for twelve years, and I sincerely hope we'll always be friends.

"Which is why I am unequivocally telling you – no more. No more taking me for granted. No more assumptions that you can expect my help with your own responsibilities without even having the courtesy to ask me first. No more dropping into my flat unannounced, no more mooching from my fridge and pantry, no more drunken appeals for a "shag for old times' sake" when you're lonely or nostalgic."

Harry makes a pained, strangled noise at the last comment; Hermione ignores him and ploughs on.

"No more telling your family and our friends that you're just 'waiting on me to come to my senses' while you cheerily throw your leg over whichever silly fawning witch you've picked for the night. No more nasty cracks about my 'brainiac bent' or uptight personality or boring fashion sense. I will not tolerate it."

The implacable gravity in Hermione's voice has struck a chord; Ron stands up, all cheer vanished from his expression.

"I like your boots," he mumbles sullenly, gazing at her with unusual shrewdness.

Hermione accords that response all the attention it deserves – zilch – and turns for the hallway. Harry quietly helps her don her coat as Ron leans in aggressively.

"Is that a hickey on your neck?" he demands, suspicion sharpening his plosive consonants. "That's a man's coat, too – is that why you're being such a bitch tonight? You're seeing someone else?". Ron's sulkiness has contorted to possessiveness in a split second.

Ignoring his vindictive accusations, Hermione hugs Harry warmly. "I'll speak with you soon."

"Goodnight, Kreacher," she calls; the manservant is lurking silently at the base of the staircase (enjoying her dressing-down of Ron, if the satisfied glint in his eye is any marker).

"Goodbye, Ron. Come see me when you've grown up a bit." Quickly opening the door, she only half-hears Ron's infuriated sputter before closing it decisively behind her.

Sorry, Harry. Hermione sends a wordless apologetic vibe to her friend. Ron is going to be insufferable for some time – but that's no longer her problem.

The crispness of the night air is refreshingly soothing on her temper-inflamed skin; Hermione allows a few moments to bask in it, and in the wonderful sensation of freedom.

But not for long: she knows exactly where she wants to go next.

Anticipation coils a joyous knot in her belly even as wild nervousness embeds alongside it.

'Too cowardly', indeed.