The Day After Tomorrow

AN OLIVE BRANCH

35 - AN OLIVE BRANCH

WHEN Ron entered the pristine reception of St Mungo's, he made a beeline for the receptionist. It was an annoyingly handsome boy and he was staring across at Ron like he was a dream come to life. "Uh hi, I'm looking for Pansy Parkinson." Ron said at the healer, his voice hesitant because the healer was still staring, open mouthed.

Part of Ron wondered if Harry was behind him because this was the kind of reaction he got, never Ron. But nope. It was just him, good old Ronald Weasley. He almost had to resist the urge to twist his neck and double check.

Andrew finally found his voice and it sounded dumb to his own ears when it came out. "Miss Parkinson?"

Ron gave the healer a wary look. "Erm yes. Pansy Parkinson."

"She's actually just down the hall doing physio." Andrew blinked feeling flustered as he gestured down the hall with a wave of his dark hand and then immediately felt stupid. "I can show you if you like?" This is what Maria was talking about, that feeling that you'd been struck stupid by the sight of them, thought Andrew. He was cursing himself, cursing the way his words were coming out choppy and disjointed like he'd forgotten how to use his mouth. But it was those eyes, those blazing blue eyes, how was he meant to function when he felt like his insides were melting.

"I think I'll be alright, but thanks mate." Said Ron and he saw the boy's brown eyes blow wide and round like he'd said something truly life changing. Ron grinned, feeling slightly and strangely chuffed at the experience.

"Yes uh, no worries, of course, whatever you need." Andrew stammered out. Ronald Weasley had just called him mate. Andrew felt on the verge of collapsing, but he forced himself to focus on this fleeting once in a lifetime opportunity. His eyes skated over Ron's frame from head to toe, busy cataloguing the details from the broad shoulders to the soft sky-blue eyes and hardened jaw. He was comparing this Ronald Weasley before him to the magicked poster he had back home. It didn't do the man nearly enough justice. Andrew had to stifle a sigh.

Ron gave the healer another flash of teeth, his neck unusually warm by the appraisal and cleared his throat clumsily. He muttered a sound that must have been, "Thank you," before turning on his heel, stepping across the smooth tiles in the direction the healer had pointed.

And just as the healer had promised, there was Pansy Parkinson, her dark hair falling into her face in sharp lines. She was sat in a metal chair along the hallway of St. Mungo's, a jersey thrown over the cotton hospital gown. He'd never seen her that way before; cosy and homey, nothing like her usual towering self, impeccably dressed and then he thought immediately, that that was the point. He wasn't meant to see her like this, bare faced and vulnerable without her shield of red lipstick and war paint. No one was supposed to see her like this.

She only saw him when he was stood above her, and she finally glanced up, eyes scanning him from bottom to top in a slow assessment. "Weasley." She greeted after a strained moment, with a perfectly arched brow like a challenge.

"Parkinson." Ron returned in the same dry tone she'd used like she was the one who had turned up unannounced. He was too busy staring at her, unabashed. Without the make up she looked younger, softer around the edges, her eyes bigger in her pale face and a whole less menacing. He even spotted spots, little freckles at her cheeks and wondered why she hid them, they looked like cinnamon.

"What are you doing here?" Her tone was rough, accusatory as he stepped towards her. All she could see, hear and feel were those final moments before she'd blacked out. When he'd been holding her against his chest, his eyes impossibly, inconceivably concerned and worried, lips tilting up into a relieved grin.