Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Above the Wreckage ❯ 20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair ( Chapter 1 )

All right, so this series is comprised of my first attempts at Harry Potter fics, so a lot of them probably won't be very good. I've never made any attempts at capturing these characters before, so please bear with me, and if you have any advice to offer…feel free to share!

 

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, nor do I own 20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Those honors belong to J.K. Rowling and (I believe) Pablo Neruda, respectively.

 

This first story takes place when Hermione is planning the Memory Charms on her parents. She, of course, isn't happy with the prospect of sending her parents to Australia, and she needs some moral support… Enter Ron, the bumbling idiot who, nevertheless, always manages to make it work.

 

I'm sorry if Hermione's parents seem unrealistic. I didn't know exactly what to do with them, so I just ended up basing both of them on different aspects of my own mom. (Yes, even the father is based on my mother. I have no knowledge of what a father is supposed to be, they're a freaking alien species…)

 

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20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair

 

Ron was making excuses to his mother again.

 

He could count on one hand the times that he had lied to his mother and gotten away with it, but he would need several more hands to count the number of times he had tried to do it this summer.

 

This particular time, he was trying to find a way to get to Hermione's house without telling his mother exactly why he had to go there. She, of course, immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion; she wanted to know exactly why he was going, if her parents would be there to supervise them, if Hermione had her own bedroom… Ron did what he could to reassure her, but there was only so much he could do when she was determined to keep him as isolated as possible from…whatever it was she thought they were planning.

 

So Ron—who was, for all intents and purposes, a grown man by the standards of the magical world—ended up sneaking out his window in the dim hours of daybreak and falling into the rose bushes below in a very undignified heap.

 

As he walked down the long lane that led to the road, Ron reached into the pocket of his pants (plain, Muggle-made jeans paired with a dark green tee shirt) and pulled out the letter that he'd received two days ago—the reason for his late-night departure. Smiling slightly, he re-read it again, trusting instinct and a long-cultivated knowledge of his home acres to stop him from walking into a tree.

 

Dear Ron,

 

I'm sorry it took so long for me to get a letter to you, but I've been quite busy during the beginning of the holidays, what with planning this and looking for ways out of that and trying to convince my parents that I haven't entered some sort of suicide pact with you and Harry, nor am I about to head off on a kamikaze mission. (You know what kamikaze means, I assume?)

 

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be carrying out my plan exactly a week from tonight. By that time, the travel arrangements will all be made and nothing should stand in Mum and Dad's way. Of course, I feel absolutely dreadful about lying to them and I've probably broken a thousand laws to pieces since all this started, but…it's for their safety, right? I just wish I knew I was doing the right thing…

 

All right, I'm rambling. I can already see you rolling your eyes and thinking that you wish I'd just leave it alone.

 

Are you still coming to visit before I come to the Burrow? And how's your part of the plan coming along? Have you gotten the spells quite right yet? They're difficult spells to master, of course—I had a hard time with them, too—but as long as you have help…

 

Oh, Mum's calling me down for dinner. I'd better go; every minute is important now, and I do hope you're being good to your family, Ron, because they're going to worry themselves sick when they find out what we're up to (it's inevitable, you know).

 

Hoping to see you soon! (I will, won't I?)

 

Love,

Hermione

 

P.S. Be sure to use that spell I taught you on your return letter if you write one; I don't want the risk of someone else reading our letters.

Enclosed with the letter was a slip of parchment containing Hermione's address and a detailed (very, very detailed) description of her home, along with extremely clear and precise instructions on how to get there through virtually every form of travel (both magical and Muggle). As recently as a year or two ago, Ron would have snorted in annoyance at such an obvious insult to his intelligence, but now he simply smiled affectionately at the gesture that was so very like his best friend.

 

-----

 

Upon reaching his destination, Ron (who, after Hermione's extensive coaching, now knew enough about Muggle custom not to go sprawling onto the floor from their fireplace or Apparating directly into their living room) stood on the porch and knocked three times. It was a little after eight in the morning (he had been waiting outside the house for three hours to make sure he wouldn't be waking anyone too early), but the tired-looking, bushy-haired girl who opened the door was already dressed for the day and had apparently started on her breakfast, judging by the half-empty bowl of cereal she clutched in her hand.

 

Though there were the distinct traces of dark circles under her eyes and she was drooping ever-so-slightly with exhaustion, Hermione's entire face lit up with the grin she bestowed upon her friend, and she dropped the bowl unceremoniously onto the floor as she flung her arms around him. He hugged her back, feeling (and looking) slightly awkward, but nowhere near as uncomfortable as he would have before…something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

 

When she finally released him (too soon, in Ron's opinion, though he wasn't even conscious of this thought and would have been thoroughly confused by it), Hermione took his arm and yanked him into the hall, closing the door behind him and leading him to the kitchen, chattering all the while; and for once, she wasn't talking about books or homework. She was just talking to talk, which was a refreshing change from her usual “I-know-everything-and-I-love-to-share-this-undisputable-fact” ways.

 

“Mum and Dad are still in bed, but they should be up soon and then I'll introduce you and they'll let you stay as long as you like, of course, because I've told them everything about you and Harry and they know you by sight anyway and you don't scare them at all. I think they'll rather like you, once you actually have a conversation. Are you hungry? Have you had breakfast? How's everything at the Burrow? The spell with the ghoul, and everything? I didn't get an answer to my letter and obviously I was wondering why, and—”

“Well, I wanted to surprise you, didn't I?” Ron replied the minute she paused for breath, making himself comfortable at the table and pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He examined it in a confused sort of way for a moment, then took a timid bite. Finding it to his liking, he began to shovel it in at an almost indecent speed.

 

“Slow down, Ron, you look like you're eating too fast to taste anything.”

 

“S'good,” the redhead replied, swallowing heavily and pouring another bowl.

 

Hermione huffed and shook her head, but her eyes sparkled with amusement as she turned back to the stove to prepare a “real” breakfast of bacon, eggs, and chocolate chip pancakes. Unfortunately for her, the Grangers arrived in the kitchen just in time to hear their daughter swear loudly as her first pancake collapsed into pieces the moment it was threatened with the spatula.

 

“Oh, I'm such rubbish with pancakes…”

 

Ron chuckled appreciatively. “Hermione! I didn't know you knew that word…”

 

“Erm…Hermione, dear?”

 

The spatula clattered to the counter and Hermione whipped around so fast that she nearly caught her shirt on fire. “Mum! Dad! …Did you, er…hear that…?”

 

Mr. Granger nodded, but didn't say anything on the matter. Instead, he asked, “Why the sudden need for domesticity? I don't think I've ever seen you make food like this before…”

 

Neither of them seemed to notice Ron, though Mrs. Granger's gaze flickered to him as she moved to take over for Hermione.

 

Hermione, for her part, shrugged in answer to her father's question. “I was up. It was there.”

 

Mrs. Granger laughed. “Good a reason as any, I guess. Aren't you going to introduce us to your friend, Hermione?”

 

Ron choked on his eighty-eighth spoonful of cereal and sat up a little straighter, saying (in an unusually respectful tone), “I'm Ron Weasley, Mrs. Granger.”

 

Mr. Granger looked thoughtful. “Oh! We saw you with your family at the bank that day and had drinks with your father. That's right. How are you? And, uh…no offense, but what are you doing here?”

 

“Ron just came to visit, Dad. He wanted to surprise us. We both hoped you wouldn't mind…”

 

“No, we don't, we were just surprised, is all,” Mrs. Granger replied. “We hear all about your friends, Hermione, but we never actually see them…”

 

“Half the time we wondered if they were figments of your imagination,” Mr. Granger added teasingly, earning himself a slap from the towel that Mrs. Granger had just picked up from the counter.

 

Ron chuckled and, feeling safe enough to turn back to his cereal, did so with only slightly less enthusiasm than before.

 

-----

 

“Okay, I honestly can't believe your mother let me up here. My mum would never leave me alone with…” Ron faltered to a halt and blinked for a minute, not sure what he'd been about to say but knowing that it could have had disastrous results. “Well, anyway, I'm surprised she's not up here watching our every move.”

 

Hermione, who was sitting at her desk and flipping through a stack of parchment, smiled as she looked up at him. “Yeah, well, Mum and Dad are a bit naïve about that sort of thing, and anyway, there's no reason we can't be alone, is there?”

 

Ron felt his heart skip a beat at the smile on her face, and cursed inside his head. The smile he tossed back was nonchalant, however, and he threw himself down on the bed, leaning up against the headboard and holding a pillow to his stomach as he looked happily around.

 

The bedroom they currently occupied was much like the rest of the house, but with a personal touch that was distinctly “Hermione”. The floors were hardwood of a slightly lighter shade than the furniture, which appeared to be made of cherry wood. The bed was buried beneath several multicolored layers of sheets and blankets, a comforter, and six pillows; it seemed that Hermione had trouble staying warm and getting comfortable. In addition to the bed, there was a small table and a desk that was currently buried beneath countless scraps of parchment, some books, and a half-finished History of Magic essay; apparently, Hermione had forgotten for at least little while that she wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts.

 

Every inch of wall that wasn't covered by furniture was, of course, lined with bookshelves; there must have been upwards of seven hundred books in this room alone, and Hermione had told him that there was easily that many in the living room and at least a few hundred in her parents' room. That, she said, wasn't even taking to account the study or all the boxed-up books that they hadn't yet managed to find room for. Clearly, Hermione's bookworm status hadn't come to her by accident.

 

“So…how's your part of the plan coming? Everything going right?”

 

Hermione sighed in exasperation. “Yes, Ronald.”

 

“Well there's no reason to get all defensive, I was just—”

 

“Yes there is! You always act like I don't know what I'm doing… `Womenfolk' and all that, and—”

 

“You know that's not true, you're so sensitive, I was just—”

 

“Will you let me finish a sentence, please, Ronald?”

 

“Only if you'll let me finish one…”

 

Then they fell silent, more for lack of anything to argue about than anything else. Ron sat with his arms crossed, and Hermione went back to riffling through her papers with unnecessary force; she finally ripped one and tossed them all aside in a huff.

 

“How do we always get ourselves into these fights?” Hermione suddenly exploded.

 

“Oh, I don't know… Could it be that you're impossible to live with?”

 

At that, Hermione flared up again. “Or maybe you're the one who's impossible.”

 

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly closed it again and smiled slightly, leaning back into his former position. “Could be.”

 

Hermione couldn't help herself; she laughed.

 

The next silence they fell into was much more comfortable as Hermione now began to make what Ron could only assume was a list of some sort on a piece of parchment.

 

After a few minutes, Ron—more for something to do than for any other reason—stood up and walked over to one of the bookshelves, feigning interest in its contents. He selected one at random and began to flip absentmindedly through it while he watched Hermione out of the corner of his eye. “So…how're you doing with…everything? You…y'know…holding up okay?”

 

Rather than going into a temper again as Ron half-expected, Hermione simply didn't answer for several moments, but kept writing. After awhile, though, she set her quill aside and looked out the window with a sigh. “`Love is so short, and forgetting is so long…'”

 

“…Huh?”

 

Hermione sighed, in exasperation this time. “It's from Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.”

 

“…Right.”

 

Another sigh. “The book in your hands, Ron.”

 

“Oh! Right! I knew that…”

 

Hermione just shook her head in amusement. “Anyway, I doubt Pablo Neruda was talking about parents when he wrote that, but…well, it kind of applies here, doesn't it?”

 

Ron tried and, of course, failed to understand what Hermione was talking about, but felt it was best not to say anything at all.

 

-----

 

The next day was what Hermione had come to think of as The Day.

 

The charms went off without a hitch, and Ron and Hermione (after hiding in the bushes for two hours outside the house) watched from a safe distance as the Granger parents boarded a plane to Australia that afternoon. Hermione remained calm, though strangely silent, throughout; Ron was extremely grateful for this, as he was rather frightened by girls who were prone to hysterics.

 

It wasn't until they were back at Hermione's house to pack her things that either of them spoke. Without saying a word, Hermione led the way to her room and started throwing clothes into a bag—light layers; she was packing for all contingencies—and Ron picked up a list of books from her desk and started to remove the titles from the shelves.

 

Several minutes passed before Ron registered the lack of movement coming from the other side of the room, and he looked up to see Hermione holding a sweater and staring thoughtfully at something on her bedside table that Ron couldn't see. Frowning, Ron put down the book he was holding (100 Common Magical Poisons and Their Equally Common Antidotes) and walked over to stand behind her. She didn't notice him, which was never a good sign.

 

Then he caught a glimpse of what she was looking at, and his frown deepened. The only thing left on the table, aside from the lamp and the alarm clock, was a framed photo of Hermione and her parents that looked as though it had been taken on the train platform on Hermione's first day at Hogwarts.

 

Ron didn't know what to say. Hermione looked caught between tears and stoicism, and the redhead wasn't honestly sure how to deal with either one. So he settled for one of the most tactful and yet reassuring sentences he had ever uttered.

 

“You won't have to forget them, you know.”

 

Hermione blinked out of her reverie and returned to him. “Huh?”

 

“What you said earlier. `Love is so short, forgetting is so long.' You won't have to worry about forgetting them, or them forgetting you. You'll see each other again, and when you do they'll remember who you are and you'll never have to leave each other again.” He smiled at her, and prayed for her to smile back; comforting people never came easy for him. He supposed it was a guy thing.

 

Hermione blinked at him in surprise.

 

“…What? Every now and then I listen…”

 

She laughed. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

 

Ron tried to scowl, failed miserably, and turned his back on her to grin at the bookshelves. Even concentrating on the books as he was, though, he still watched out of the corner of his eye as she picked up the picture from her table and slipped it into her pack.

 

-----

 

Hermione found the house—indeed, her entire street—eerily silent the next morning. She couldn't ever remember a day passing at her home when she didn't see her parents at some point, and now she didn't know whether or not she would ever see them again.

 

They hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

 

On the sidewalk, she turned to look back at the house one last time, and felt Ron stop beside her.

 

“I've never really lived anywhere else, you know…”

 

Ron nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

 

Hermione took a deep breath, bestowed one last, long look on the vacant house, and turned resolutely away. “Well, let's get going. Your mother is probably worried out of her mind. You did leave a note, didn't you?”

 

Ron sighed heavily. “Yes, dear.”

 

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. “That's not funny, Ronald.”

 

“You laughed, didn't you?”

 

“…No.”

 

Ron grinned. “Liar.”

 

Then, without thinking (or regretting), he reached out to give her hand a light squeeze. The pressure was gone so quickly that Hermione half wondered if she'd imagined it, and then he turned and walked off down the street; they planned to Disapparate in a field about ten minutes outside the suburb to avoid unwanted attention from the always nosy neighbors.

 

Hermione stared after him for a long time. Ron didn't appear to even notice what he'd just done, but she certainly had.

 

Shaking her head, she ran to catch up to him.

 

And she silently cursed herself for wishing he'd held on longer.