Godric's Hollow - Chapter Two : Time - H/R - NC-17
Title: Godric’s Hollow
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: NC-17

This is my Big Damn Table, turned into a multi-chaptered novella.

One hundred stories inspired by Broke Back Mountain.

Ron looks back on his life with and without Harry.



Chapter Two : Time

Hours
I missed him.

He was right there, but I missed him.

I never left his side until it was all over; we slept in the same room; once he knocked me to the ground and threw himself on top of me to save me from a Death Eater’s curse.

But he behaved exactly as he had before the summer.

He had put it all away in a box and turned the key.

And I had to do the same.

If it killed me.

I missed him.

I brooded on the other times we had been apart.

The first time I had really missed him was terrifying.

Second year we were joined at the hip; together twenty-four hours a day, especially after Hermione was petrified.

Especially when I followed him into the forest and faced those bloody spiders.

I would have followed him anywhere, did he know that?

But when he went on alone, to save my sister, he had to leave me behind.

Behind a sodding rock fall.

Those hours, alone in the dark, were worse than facing spiders.

I thought my sister was dead; I thought Harry was dead.

And all I could do was try and shift the rubble with bleeding fingers and try and stop my heart from breaking.

I’d always thought that that was a stupid, girly thing to say.

But the pain in my chest wasn’t just from swallowing my tears so I could see what I was doing by the light of my broken wand.

He’d gone to face a Basilisk. For me. Because it was my stupid sister that had been taken.

I’d been sure that I’d finally got my wish – I’d be infamous – something none of my brothers had ever done – got the Boy Who Lived killed.

But, oh, my Harry.

My Harry was incredible. And it wasn’t the Boy Who Lived crap. My Harry was twelve when he killed a Basilisk, destroyed a Horcrux and rescued the fucking princess.

Just imagine Ginny’s reaction when she awoke to find the boy she was crushing on all covered in blood and dirt and sweat and holding a sword and vanquishing evil to save her.

I know I’d never been happier to see anyone than when I saw him approaching the rock fall.


Days
Our Quest stretched on, and Harry never twitched if we touched, his breath never caught in his throat, like it had all summer.

He never flowed into my arms, his mouth on mine.

The longest we’d ever been apart at school was for the few days each year when one of us was in the hospital wing.

Like when he’s been attacked by Dementors.

Or when I’d been attacked by a homicidal maniac and all I could think of was that I’d lead Harry to him.

Or when I’d been attacked by a brain and lay there, having someone else’s nightmares.

Or when I’d been poisoned and he’d saved my life.

He saved my life.

And, I had to admit, my life was his.

Not just that I’d follow him into danger, again and again, not just that I’d happily lay down my life for him.

But I’d given him my heart.

Long before that summer.


Weeks
How could he not want it, anymore?

Not want me anymore.

Those weeks together had been the most perfect of my life.

I missed it.

I missed him.

I wanted him.

When we weren’t speaking in fourth year? I believed him pretty soon after it all happened. I did.

I was just so stubborn.

And he was so stubborn.

And blasted Hermione made it worse, flitting between us, saying “you miss him.”

Of course I fucking missed him.

It was like losing a limb.

I was just too stubborn.

And then he could have died in front of my eyes.

Died thinking I didn’t believe him; didn’t trust him; hated him.

And then everything was OK again.

And we never mentioned it.

Everything was back like before.

We forgot all the bad stuff.

But this was different.

I’d wanted to forget the bad stuff and be friends again.

But not this time.

I didn’t want to lose the good stuff.

Lose the taste of Harry’s mouth; the feeling of his fingers twisted in my hair; the look on his face as he fell apart under my hands, my mouth.

That was mine.

I wouldn’t let it go.

I fought beside him.

I slept beside Hermione.


Months
Of course he didn’t want to celebrate when it was all over.

Why didn’t he know that we understood that?

We’d taken care of him all through the horror; why did he have to leave when it was all over?

Leave us.

Leave me.

Again.

Hermione and I were reluctantly caught up in the celebrations.

The Wizarding World thought we were being unnecessarily protective of his whereabouts, and we were thrown together more and more, sick of saying “I don’t know where he is,” and not being believed.

So, six months after he left, we got married.

Not a very good reason to get married?

I don’t know, I’ve never married anyone before.

I loved her.

I did.

Not like I loved him.

But it made her happy; it made my mum happy; it made the Wizarding World happy.

Their little hero and heroine, living happily ever after.

And, when Harry didn’t show up for our wedding, they even believed that we hadn’t seen him.

Life was good.

Life was exactly how I wanted it.

Before.


Years
Life was good.

Hermione worked at the Ministry library; I was in Magical Games and Sports.

They didn’t mind that I hadn’t sat my NEWTs. Always good to send out a bally hero to sort out a bureaucratic problem between Gobstones clubs.

Everyone was happy.

Everyone moved on.

The twins found that people stayed giddy long after the war ended, and their business boomed.

Ginny took her NEWTs and went and studied at St Mungo’s. Mum worried that she never dated, but Healer training was full on. I think there was some Muggle bloke she saw; there was often Muggle money or cinema tickets thrown on her chest of drawers when I dropped in on her at the hospital.

And Hermione and me?

It was good.

Really.

I was married to my childhood sweetheart; the only girl I’d ever loved.

And then we had Katherine, and Elizabeth.

And they were wonderful.

They were mine.

And I gave them my heart and they cut their teeth on it, but never broke it.

Kate was a miniature version of her mother at three, all flying curls and hands on her hips as she lisped at her tiny sister, bossing her around.

Lizzie was a sunny one-year-old, with red hair and freckles, who clapped gleefully when Kate called her “Lizard” and Hermione scolded her for it.

My mum had them during the day, and sometimes Hermione and I had lunch together at the Ministry, and she was my girl, just like I’d always wanted.

And she nagged and nagged Ginny to bring her bloke to our flat some evening.

And some evening she did.

And it was Harry.