Other Waters

by Mad Maudlin

11.

Despite his jokes, Ron read through all of Hermione's books by the end of the week, though he wouldn't let Harry look at any of them. Also, except for a couple of science fiction shows that he seemed to find funny and the occasional Welsh soap opera, he didn't pay much attention to the television, either. Harry wasn't sure how to explain it, but he thought he could sense a certain restlessness in his friend—a certain boredom, maybe.

Hermione dropped by on Saturday morning with more books and a potted fern. "Neville thought you might like it," she said. "It might brighten things up a bit."

Ron stared at the fern for a moment, then took it into his room and placed it on the windowsill. "Tell Neville thanks," he said.

"Of course, he'll be glad you liked it."

"I mean it. Thank him for me."

Ron and Hermione looked at each other for a moment, and Harry wished he had an excuse to leave the room. Hermione smiled weakly, sort of sadly, and Ron bit his lip and shrugged. Then the moment broke, and Hermione patted Ron lightly on the arm before she took her leave, barely remembering to call good-bye to Harry over her shoulder. Ron stared after her, with a bit of a smile himself, not taking his eyes off of her until she was out of the door.

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. "All right, mate?" he said, trying to make it sound casual.

Ron nodded. "Yeah," he said, still looking at the door. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Mrs. Weasley sent over a large lunch that day, as if she didn't even trust them to make sandwiches on their own—Harry wondered if she secretly suspected he'd been putting the bread between the meat and the cheese all these years. He floated this idea to Ron, who sprayed crumbs across the coffee table laughing, and then looked at Harry with such warmth in his eyes that Harry had to step into the kitchen for a moment to reign in his breathing.

When he came back into the living room, Ron's good humor had retreated a bit, and his expression had grown suddenly serious. "Harry?" he said, almost tentatively.

"Yeah, mate?"

Ron was looking past him, at the tiny kitchen window. He had a funny expression on his face, not the fiercely blank one that Harry was coming to think of as his default. Ron took a deep breath, then said, hesitantly, "Let's go for a walk?"

Harry almost choked on his sandwich, but recovered. "A walk?"

"A walk," Ron said, stronger this time. "Just...around."

"Erm...okay."

"If you want to."

"I'll go if you want to."

It was a miserably London sort of day, cool and cloudy and damp, and Harry lent Ron a jacket to ward off the persistent breeze. They didn't walk long, and stayed within a block or two of Harry's building the whole time, and Ron walked as close to Harry as he could get without either of them tripping. But he also looked around at everything they passed as if he had never seen a city street before. He held his breath as they squeezed past a crowd and stopped for several minutes to watch the traffic signals change, and stared from a distance at a shop with automatic sliding doors. Harry watched him carefully and tried to keep any stupid grins off his own face, tried to pretend they were just a couple of mates taking a walk, no matter how much it warmed him to watch Ron turn his face into the freshening breeze.

They circled back to the flat long before the rain began, but as Harry struggled with the finicky lock on the front door it started to drizzle, and then to shower in earnest. Harry watched from the corner of his eye as Ron turned to watch the pavement turn dark and wet, and then tentatively stuck out an arm to let rain puddle in the palm of his hand.

-/--/--/-

Hermione invited him to lunch on Tuesday, and he was feeling so generous that he even consented to see her at the Leaky Cauldron, provided that she secure them a private eating room. She was so enthusiastic about it that he probably should've been suspicious, but Ron had taken to going walking with him every afternoon when he got home from work, making short circuits of Harry's neighborhood. He didn't think anything could put a pall on that.

That theory was tested, however, when he arrived at the pub and found that Hermione hadn't come alone. "Er...hey, Ginny," Harry said, stopping short as Tom showed him into the room.

Both women smiled at him: Ginny looked almost as discomfited as Harry felt, and Hermione had the bright-eyed, cheerful look of someone who wasn't entirely certain whether this was going to work. "Hello, Harry!" Hermione said warmly. "Er—look who I found?"

"Hello, Harry," Ginny said, with a sideways glare. "Hermione didn't mention you were who she was meeting."

Hermione buried her face in the menu. "I suppose I didn't quite get around to it..."

Harry took a deep breath and sat down across the table from Ginny. Relationship or not, Ron or no Ron, Ginny was a part of his life and his past and he was going to at least stay on speaking terms with her. Also, he wanted lunch. She fiddled with her drink quite a bit, but didn't hesitate to look him in the eye, which he felt at least was a positive sign.

"How's Ron doing?" Hermione asked. "Does he like the books I brought him?"

"Yeah, he's been plowing through them—never knew he could read that fast."

"That's good."

"What sorts of books are they?" Ginny asked.

She had addressed the question to Harry, but he looked to Hermione, whose face pinked up a bit. "Magic, mostly," she said. "I picked a few titles from the NEWTs reading list. I hoped it would encourage him a bit, at least to buy a new wand."

Harry bit down on the urge to scold her for pressuring him; Ron obviously wasn't feeling pressured, at the rate he was devouring those books. Did he dare hope that this represented progress? "We'll see," he said finally. "Don't think he's thought that far ahead yet."

Hermione nodded. "It was just a thought. And, er, how are you holding up?"

"Fine," he said, feeling his neck warm. The last place he wanted to talk about that was in front of Ginny.

"No...problems?"

"No," he said firmly.

"That's good..."

Ginny frowned at them, but was prevented from saying anything by the arrival of Tom with their food. When the old man had gone again, Harry jumped in with a change of topic. "How about you? Are you, er, okay?"

She smiled and she poked at her salad. "Yes. Yes, I honestly think I am."

"And Neville?"

"He's...all right."

"All right," Ginny said with a frown, "what's the secret code?"

"Nothing," Harry said quickly. "Don't worry about it."

She didn't look convinced, but allowed Hermione to change the topic again, and soon they were embroiled in a cheerful session of comparing and complaining about their jobs. Harry would've been content to let the conversation stay there for the rest of the meal, but when Ginny excused herself to the loo, Hermione dug into him again. "Seriously, Harry, have you given any more thought to what we talked about?"

"Yes," he said, only half meaning it. "And I'd really rather not talk about it here."

She frowned at him. "Have you decided anything?" she asked. "Have you even talked about it with him?"

"Of course not!" Harry blurted.

She threw her head back. "Men!"

"Hermione," he said, "look. I like Ron. I like being around Ron. That's all I'm sure of. Anything else has to wait until he's better."

"That's it?" she asked. "You kissed him because you like being around him?"

Harry swallowed. I like being around him. I like the way he laughs. I like the way he mouths the words when he reads. I like the remarks he makes when we're watching television. I like his hair. I like the look in his eyes when he's thinking hard. I like the way he gloats about chess. I like the way he sleeps and I wish I could stop the nightmares. I wish I could stop him jumping at the littlest things. I wish I could stop him twitching all over when somebody touches him. I wish I could touch him...

"More or less," he said, and quickly drained his glass.

Hermione insisted, in the end, on handling the payment by herself. "Just wait up here," she said as she took their Galleons, "I'll get the change and be right back up."

"We're capable of making simple transactions by ourselves, you know," Ginny said bemusedly.

"Well, there's no point in all of us going down at once..."

"Except it'd be faster," Harry pointed out.

She smiled widely. "Trust me, I'll be back in a moment! Don't leave on me!" She darted out, shutting the door behind her; Harry half-expected her to lock it behind her.

This left him and Ginny along together. Again. Bollocks.

"You know why she did this," Ginny said reluctantly, after a beat of silence.

"I have a theory," Harry said dryly.

Ginny sighed and crossed her arms. "Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you at the party," she said. "All I want is a straight answer to a simple question."

"I don't think it's all that simple," Harry told her.

"I think it is!" she said. "Harry, I did stupid things, and there was a war, and we broke up. But the war is over and I've apologized and I want to know if I—if we—still have a shot. Yes or no?"

"Ginny, I'm not the boy who kissed you in the middle of the common room, all right?" Harry said. "And you're not the girl he kissed. Not anymore. What happens if it doesn't work out?"

"What happens if it does?" She reached out and grabbed his hand. "What if we're not as different as you think? Is that what you're afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," he said, trying to pull his hand back, but she wouldn't let go.

"Then why do you keep making excuses?" she said.

"I'm not making excuses—I'm telling you, it can't ever be the same again—"

"I still love you, you idiot!" she practically shouted. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"And I—"

The words caught in Harry's throat, and he stared at her for a moment, unable to speak. Her hair was loose today, falling over her shoulders in shining copper waves, and her face was very pink from shouting: she glowed in the room, and her eyes were sparkling with life, with passion...

And Harry was uncomfortable, embarrassed, annoyed.

And nothing more.

"I'm sorry," he told her.

She shut her eyes and let go of his hand; she seemed to contract a little, actually, as she exhaled. "I should've known it," she said softly.

"I'm really sorry."

"Harry, please don't." She turned away from him and looked into the roaring fire. "I was just holding out hope anyway. I shouldn't have...well."

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, not trusting himself to speak again. They stood in silence until Hermione came back with their change, nearly fifteen minutes after she'd gone downstairs. She looked at them both, standing on opposite sides of the room, and her eyes went very wide. "Is everything all right?" she asked nervously.

Harry shrugged. Ginny sniffled a bit and accepted a handful of Knuts. "It will be," she said. "Don't worry about it."

"I really am sorry," Harry blurted again.

Ginny glanced at him once before she slipped out the door. "Me, too."

After a moment of bewildered silence, Hermione blinked at Harry. He shook his head. "Don't ask."

"Are you—?"

"Just don't ask, all right?"

He plowed sluggishly through the rest of the afternoon's work, half-distracted by the feeling that he'd lost something important. What, though? A symbol of happier days? A link to the future he always thought he was meant to have? He could practically hear Hermione clucking her tongue at him. I'm examining my motives, Hermione, he though morosely, aren't you proud of me? Perhaps this was what she always meant when she harassed him about "moving on," this letting go...he'd just given up what he once wanted more than anything in the world. He wasn't entirely sure what he was meant to do next.

He tried to rally himself before he Apparated home, because he really didn't want to discuss this with Ron. But when he popped into the kitchen, the first thing he noticed was the Chinese food: large cartons of it poking out of plastic bags on the table. He turned around and saw Ron sitting on the couch with a carton of what looked like sweet-and-sour pork and—of all things—a pair of chopsticks; he had great splotches of sauce down his front, attesting to his success rate. "Hey, Harry," he said a bit breathlessly.

"Hey," Harry said. "Where did all this come from?"

Ron put down his food and stood up, wiping sticky hands on his trousers. "Erm. I bought it."

"From where?"

"Minn's? The place on the corner?"

Harry knew exactly where Minn's was; they had passed it walking every afternoon, and Ron always had to hold his breath as they threaded through the lines. "Ron," he said, "Minn's doesn't deliver."

Ron's face pinked. "I know. I picked it up."

Harry blinked at him. "You...all by yourself?"

He averted his eyes and mumbled, "Reckoned it'd be good for a change, or something..."

Ron was shifting his weight on the balls of his feet, almost as if he expected Harry to scold him—as if he expected to have to run. Harry looked at the bags, and then at Ron, with food down his shirt and a glob of sauce stuck in his beard, eyes shaded by his shaggy fringe. Something warm lit up in the pit of his stomach. "Thanks," he said, and grabbed a carton of beef and broccoli. "I really appreciate it."

Ron's nervous grin was the best thing he'd seen all day.

-/--/--/-

They should've known it couldn't last forever.

Friday evening was the first Quidditch match of the season, and they stayed up altogether too late listening to the wireless broadcast. Ron had been transfixed, leaping half out of his chair at every goal and holding his breath at every sighting of the Snitch. When the match finally ended, Ron volunteered to do all the washing-up from dinner, to which Harry heartily agreed. Ron's face had been very flushed, and there'd been a slight tremor in his hands, but he'd been smiling—a genuine smile, not forced or fake. Harry had assumed he'd just gotten over-excited by his first Quidditch match in three years, and that he'd have plenty of time to calm down before he went to bed.

Harry fell asleep with the image of Ron' s glowing face fixed in his mind. He woke up with a hoarse scream ringing in his ears. For a foggy second he didn't know where it had come from; then he heard a thump from the other bedroom, and a rising moan that ended in a shout. He scrambled out of bed, scarcely remembering to grab his glasses, and his wand—just in case, he told himself, just in case.

He found Ron thrashing about on the floor, growling and mumbling incoherently. Harry grabbed the sheet that was entangling Ron's limbs and yanked it free, earning a kick in the side of the head for his troubles. Ron flung himself backwards and away—his eyes opened wide, and he blinked once, twice, three times. Then he let out a shuddering sigh, and seemed to shrink in on himself, shivering as he slumped against the chest of drawers with his legs drawn up.

"Ron?" Harry asked, crouching down. "Talk to me."

Ron shook his head, took several deep breaths, then said distinctly, "Shit."

Harry's instinct was to ask are you all right? though it was obvious that he wasn't. "Are you hurt?" he asked instead, and lit his wand to get a good look at his friend. It was hard to tell the way he was curled up, but Harry would bet he'd at least have a collection of bruises in the morning from the way he'd been flailing. There were scratches on his neck again, too, and Harry noticed a sluggishly bleeding cut on his forehead, probably from the fall.

But Ron shook his head again and pulled his knees up tighter to his chest. When Harry crawled forward a bit, Ron spat, "I'm fine."

"The hell you are," Harry said. "Let me see your head."

Ron blinked a bit, then swiped a hand across his forehead. When he saw the blood on his fingers, he stared at it for a few moments, and then vomited.

Harry sighed, and grabbed Ron's arm, hating the automatic twitch under the sweat-soaked sleeve. "Come on," he said. "Get up."

"Let go of me," Ron said without much feeling.

"You're not sitting here all night."

Ron stumbled to his feet, and Harry nudged him in the direction of the bathroom before vanishing the puddle of sick on the floor. The sheets of the bed were as sweaty as Ron's pajamas, so he stripped them off and stuffed them in the hamper. Ron could finish the night on the couch...assuming he could even get back to sleep. Harry also grabbed a pair of dry pajamas and tracked Ron down in the bathroom, where he was brushing his teeth in a way that could only be described as "violently." He'd opened the medicine cabinet, too, so that the mirror was angled uselessly towards the wall.

"Here," Harry said, setting the pajamas on the toilet. "I'll take care of that cut when you're done."

Ron grunted something and kept staring straight ahead. Harry didn't know what else to say, so he retreated to the couch and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up completely.

A few minutes later, Ron threw himself down on the couch next to Harry and folded his arms over his chest. The cut appeared to have stopped bleeding already; it was really quite small, just leaky, as head injuries so often were. "Ready?" Harry asked, lifting his wand.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut and snapped, "Just do it."

Ron had sat on Harry's left, and the cut was over his left eye, so Harry had to practically sprawl across his lap to reach it. Ron twitched and jumped the entire time, so much so that Harry had to steady his head with his free hand to cast the charm. "Hold still," Harry said, trying to cap his frustration.

"Just do it," Ron growled again.

"I'm trying—" Harry cast the charm and wiped away the blood with his thumb. "There." Ron almost immediately squirmed away to the far side of the couch.

Harry sat back, jaw clenched. This wasn't the easy post-nightmare routine he'd been getting used to. He set his wand aside and washed the little spot of blood off his hands in the kitchen sink, and under the rush of running water he almost missed Ron's hoarse whisper:

"I hate it."

"Eh?" Harry turned the sink off and turned around quickly.

Ron's face twisted into a scowl. "I hate it!" he suddenly shouted, pulling his knees to his chest again. "I'm bloody sick of it, all of it."

"All of what?" Harry asked, sitting down at Ron's side again.

"Everything. Myself." Ron drew a shaky breath and raked his hand through his hair. "I'm sick of being so bloody nervous all the time, and scared of everything, and I'm sick of the bloody nightmares and I'm sick of being crazy and I'm sick and bloody tired of...of everything!"

"Ron, calm down," Harry said. "It's..." not okay, but... "You've been doing really well this week, yeah?"

He snorted. "Yeah, whoohoo, I walked to the bloody Chinese take-away, what a big accomplishment."

"Well..." Harry threw up his hands. "I don't know what you want me to say, then. I think you're doing better."

"Compared to what, a flobberworm?"

"Compared to how you were at the Burrow."

Ron sighed, and pressed his face into the heel of his hands. "I just want to...I want the way things were supposed to be," he said. "I want to walk around outside, and eat a proper meal, and see my family, and sleep...bloody hell, I want to go home..."

"You will—"

"When?" Ron looked up again. "When, Harry? You're the one with all the answers—when do I get to go home and stay there? How long do I have to be crazy before it starts getting better?"

"You are getting better!" Harry snapped back, then took a deep breath and looked into Ron's eyes. "Ron, look, I can understand you being frustrated, but—you're doing better than you think. I know you are."

"How?" Ron asked. His body was starting to relax and uncurl, but he was watching Harry now with an unnerving intensity, and Harry couldn't really read his face. "How do you know?"

Harry licked his lips, feeling his heart pound, but he scooted closer to Ron on the couch. "You laugh," he said, "And you eat, without hunching over the plate like I'm going to steal it from you. You talk to me. You go outside. You walk to the bloody Chinese take-away...that's how I know you're getting better, because you're being normal..."

"I don't even know what normal is anymore," Ron whispered.

"Yeah, you do," Harry said. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

Ron took a deep breath and suddenly leaned in close, stretched out to close the gap between them. Harry instinctively leaned back, thinking Ron was going to lash out at him for some reason. But then one of Ron's hands found Harry's shoulder, and then Ron's mouth found Harry's lips, and then—

For some reason the first thought that crossed Harry's mind was his beard feels really strange, and only then did he register that he was kissing him, that this was real. Ron's hand on Harry's shoulder was shaking a little and his ragged breath ghosted over Harry's face, but his lips were steady and firm. A thousand questions flitted through Harry's head before they chased out by a single, simpler thought: Close your damn eyes and enjoy it.

Harry closed his eyes, but a moment later, Ron pulled away, all the expression on his face shutting down. "I'm sorry," he blurted, and started to untangle his legs and climb off the couch. "I shouldn't've—"

"Ron, wait." Harry grabbed his arm and held him in place. "Erm. Don't be sorry."

Ron blinked at him. "It's okay?"

"It's..." Harry set his glasses on properly again and swallowed. "Where did that come from?"

Ron sighed and looked away. "I just...you've been...I really would've lost it at home without you around, mate. I mean it. Everything...it's all different, and it's like I wandered into someone else's life by accident and I don't know what he's meant to be doing or who he's meant to be...but you just treat me like me. And I like that. And when you—after the reporter—it made me jumpy, just, y'know, the touching. But it was also...nice. Which makes sense, because kissing is supposed to be—and I reckon I haven't that good...that normal...in a long time."

He smiled weakly, hopefully; Harry smiled back, but he was having a bit of trouble catching himself up to the conversation. "So you weren't—I mean, I was afraid I'd upset you or something."

"Upset? No...I just thought you and Ginny were still..."

"No," Harry sighed. "Not anymore."

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a moment, and Harry watched Ron's face carefully, because he couldn't quite believe yet that this was all really happening. Ron looked at his lap, tapping his fingers nervously against his knee Harry would never call himself an expert at any kind of emotional algebra, but it seemed a bit obvious that if Ron fancied him, and he fancied Ron, then the next part was obvious...wasn't it?

"I know we can't—I can't—it wouldn't ever work," Ron blurted, exactly on cue. "I'm just, erm, I'm too crazy. I know that. It's too normal for me, you know? I don't even know how to be that anymore."

"You think this would be normal?" Harry asked. "You and me?"

Ron smiled weakly. "Well, look at what I've got to compare it to..."

Harry chuckled, and squeezed Ron's arm. Then he realized what he'd just done. "Ron—you didn't jump."

"Eh?"

Harry squeezed Ron's arm again, a little tighter, feeling the layer of flesh that had built up under the skin in the past few weeks. Ron looked down and blinked at Harry's hand as though it were an alien life-form. "I didn't notice," he said in awe.

"I told you, you're getting better," Harry said, and then took a deep breath. "And I...I don't want to push you into anything, mate. It's not that I think you're too crazy—I know you're not—but you've got more than enough to worry about just taking care of yourself..."

"Harry," Ron said, as he covered Harry's hand with his own, "I don't want to worry about myself. That's sort of the point."

There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other, and then Harry impulsively leaned in and kissed Ron again. He sensed the automatic recoil, the tension in Ron's shoulders, but Ron kissed him back readily and squeezed his hand with crooked fingers. And when Harry pulled back, Ron's face was smooth and calm and—happy.

A warm feeling filled his chest, and he licked his lips, tasting mostly toothpaste. "I think we can do this," he said, "just—slowly."

"Slow," Ron repeated. "Right."

"And," Harry said, "you have to tell me if it's too much."

Ron nodded. "Just keep telling me I'm not as mad as I think I am, okay?"

Harry didn't have any illusions—it couldn't be nearly this easy, not after all Ron had endured. But it was a start, at least, and God knew they both could use one. "So," Harry said, "you want to, um, practice this normal thing again?"

Ron blinked at him and snickered. "That's what you call a come-on line, Potter?"

"Git."

"Wanker."

Ron kissed him again, a little less nervously, and Harry wondered if this meant he had officially moved on.