#pitp

Dread forced it’s way up and choked her in the process. Heaving, she pushed herself off her bed and walked over to the bunk bed where Ron lay. Hermione concentrated on the slight rise and fall of his chest before she collapsed silently on the floor next to his bed. Ron still wore the same blood-soaked shirt she had ripped off partially. His face had regained little colour and his skin appeared ghostly white, standing out starkly in contrast to his hair and the blood-stains on his shirt.

She wiped off the tears that escaped and just about managed to cut back her sob. The run-in at the Ministry has made it clear than ever that the Horcrux hunt was far more dangerous than anything the three of them had dealt with so far. It was no longer an adventure from the security of their school. A tiny mistake would cost them their life- her mistake today has almost cost Ron his life. 

She wasn’t prepared this time. Neither for the war and definitely not to lose him.

It was harder to hold back the cry that escaped and she quickly hid her face in the crook of her arm and she bit down on her skin lest she woke Ron up.

…

His senses were a lot more alert albeit extremely exhausted. Ron shifted slightly, wincing at the stinging on his left arm and sensed rather heard her muffled sobs. 

Carefully, Ron turned a smidge to his left and placed his right hand tenderly on hers.

She looked up in shock and even in the faint firelight seeping in through the canvas, Ron could see Hermione’s tearstained face. 

She appeared to be struggling to hold back her whimpers and he tugged on her arm for the stiffness of his left shoulder made it hard for him to pull himself up. Hermione scooted closer without meeting his gaze and then slowly gripped his hand and pressed her face to it, grazing his skin with her tears. Ron’s heart twisted painfully; he hated to be the reason for her tears. She didn’t quite have to voice out for him to know the reason for her anguish.

Disregarding his sore arm, Ron pushed himself off the bed, unable to hold back, however, the involuntary gasp that escaped him. She was beside him in a snap, supporting his back and sat beside him as he placed his feet down on the ground to sit at the edge of the bunk bed, his torso bent at an odd angle to avoid hurting his head on the bunk above, breathing erratically with the small effort. He had to get better soon, he told himself sternly, or he’d slow them down.

He turned to face her, but Hermione had already left the room.

She returned moments later, her small beaded bag clasped between her fingers. Hermione lit a lone candle, and as he watched, she pulled out a few of his clothes from it before retrieving an old checkered buttondown. 

She approached him and even before she could ask him to, he left the bed to kneel down on the floor. Hermione knelt down in front of him and wordlessly began unbuttoning his shirt. Ron watched her bit her lip struggle with her breathing as she carefully removed the torn and blood-stained shirt off him. She pulled out her wand, wordlessly conjuring a bowl and some warm water and a washcloth. With the silence broken only by her muffled sobs, she wiped off the dried stains of his blood from his arm and shoulder. He didn’t stop her, knowing well that they both needed the cleansing of this wound. 

Finally, she disappeared all the paraphernalia and with even more care she helped him put on the fresh one, leaving it unbuttoned at the front. Her frazzled hair lay limp and despite the state of his undress and the emotions these situations usually gave rise to, he couldn’t think of anything apart from how broken she appeared.

He knew why. Ron would’ve never forgiven himself if any mistake of his had endangered her life, and although Ron would gladly take an Avada to keep her safe, he knew how guiltridden she’d be currently. Finally, Hermione pulled out her wand again and cast a warming spell on him.   

When she was done, Hermione paused and met his gaze, unshed tears pooling in her eyes.

He didn’t break her gaze. There were things that were not to be worded out between them, not yet, and he hoped she would read them in his eyes. He hadn’t learned to live without her- and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

So the next year or so had been dedicated to the futile task of trying to convince himself that he wanted to snog a girl and that it was only because Hermione was around all the time that he wanted it to be her. It would have been a right decent plan too except for the fact that he never found himself wanting to kiss anyone else. Sure Fleur’s Veela death ray made his mind go fuzzy sometimes, but it wasn’t the same. When his soon-to-be sister-in-law left the room, the effect vanished. When Hermione left the room, it didn’t lessen his snog- wants in the slightest.  In fact, as he learned in a spectacularly disastrous fashion, even snogging someone else didn’t cure it.

He didn’t want it to sound quite so insulting to Lavender: she really was a nice enough girl. And, if here were being completely honest, all the attention and all the kissing were nice at first, but even then it was like eating a tin of biscuits when you aren’t particularly hungry. You’re all like, Wicked! There’s biscuits! And you have a few, and they’re ok, because they are biscuits after all, but when you finish them you don’t feel particularly satisfied. So, just when he'd sussed out that in addition to loving Hermione in the same way that he loved Harry and his family, he had another, even deeper feeling that he wasn’t ready to name yet, he thought he had lost her altogether. 

He guessed that love and magic were a lot alike. They were both frequently complicated, not everyone believed in them, and you didn’t always appreciate them until you couldn’t make them work.  They were both also words that quite honestly got overused. Ron Weasley grew up in a home whose very fabric was love and magic. Being friends with Harry had taught him just how much he took them both for granted. It had been both of those forces that made his 17th birthday so memorable. He would like to think that he and Hermione would have worked it out, would have stopped being so stubborn without his near-death experience, but he wasn’t so sure. 

After that day, he’d vowed to make it right. He knew it might be a long process, but she was worth it. Their friendship and whatever he might hope to build on that foundation, were worth it. They had made so much progress over the last few months: talking, planning, comforting one another.  But now, he grimaced as he tried to adjust his position on the cot, he felt so useless. How could she depend on him if he could barely move? 

Ron’s movement brought her to his side. She hovered over him, a tenderness in her eyes that most people didn’t know she possessed. He knew. It was one of the things he was most proud of: knowing the things about Hermione Granger that no one else did.  

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, just hard to get comfortable.”

“Want to sit up for a bit?”

He nodded and braced himself. Changing positions was the worst, yet the best part of his injury. It hurt like hell, but if he blocked the pain out, he could enjoy having her wrapped so closely around him.  

She bent down and hooked an arm underneath his good one. He took a moment to appreciate her proximity: the warm smell of her hair, the soft feel of her body touching his. He could almost let himself imagine all the things he should not be imagining. It had been the same during his poisoning recovery. It was a simple fantasy really: he would just turn back the covers beside him and she would climb in next to him. It didn't particularly matter what came next: anything, everything, or even nothing. It was the closeness he craved more than anything else. 

Hermione pulled back slightly when she had his torso upright, “This better?” 

“Can we shift a bit to the right?” he knew it wouldn’t be any more comfortable, but at least it ensured that she would hold on a bit longer.

“Sure,” Hermione seemed to be in no hurry to let go either. Once he was settled, she made no attempt to leave, staying instead on the edge of his bed.

For the millionth time he cursed his poor timing. If only they’d had a little more time to sort things before the world had gone sideways.  More time? Are you mental...you’ve had actual, bloody years. It was like Charlie always said, Ron, you could fall into a cauldron full of tits and come out sucking your own thumb. 

Charlie…at least maybe he was safe, in Romania, but what about the rest of them? What about Ginny and his mum and his dad and...

“Ron?” Her face was tight with concern.

“Oh, sorry...I was just thinking,” as much as he didn’t want her to worry about him, his heart still warmed at the fact that she did. 

“About?”

“Jus’ my family,” it wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her about it, and he wouldn’t lie, but he didn’t want to worry her any more than he had to.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” she was doing her best to sound convincing, “at least you saw your dad at the Ministry so we know he is alright, and he wouldn’t have been there if anyone else was in trouble, right?”

“Guess so...makes sense.”

He had tried telling himself the very same thing, and it was a small comfort.

“And your mum and dad would know when it wasn’t safe...they would know when to go and what to do, this is even less new to them than it is to us.”

That was true. In an abstract way he knew what his parents had been through in the past, that they were part of the Order now, but it had never seemed as real to him as it did now. All the stories he’d heard growing up about his parents and the first war seemed to be just stories. He wondered if one day their children getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? would feel the same way about their part in all this. 

“Y'know, I’ve never really appreciated how much they’re risking, how dangerous it really is,” he searched for the right words, he didn’t want to scare her any more than he had to, “but after what we saw.”

She shuddered visibly, “I know, I just can’t get over how brave he is, going there every day.”

“Exactly! And we were only there a few hours,” he fought back a tiny wisp of panic, “I just wish I could do something.”

Hermione reached out and took his free hand with both of her smaller ones, “but you are!”

“Am I?” Self disgust saturated his question.

“Yes! I know that right now it doesn’t feel like it, but we are making progress, even if it’s not the way we planned.”

“I want to believe that...I just,” the feeling of her so close was suddenly overwhelming, and he found himself wondering if it might not be possible to just live the rest of their lives right there in that tent, “feel so bloody useless.”

“Don’t you think I feel that way too?”

“If you do, you shouldn’t,” how could she ever think such rubbish?

“I was worse than useless yesterday,” she glanced over at his bandaged arm, “I got you hurt.”

“You saved me, saved all of us! If you hadn’t been so quick...I don’t even want to think about what would’ve happened!” He felt anger rising up through his chest and lodging in his clenched jaw.

“We were lucky, that’s for sure,” she smiled down at their clasped hands.

Luck always runs out. 

Just a few days ago he had been so confident, so naive. Their trip to the ministry had opened his eyes to so many things. Even though he’d always been unaware of it consciously, he’d truly believed that his family’s blood status would keep them, keep him safe. He’d even thought foolishly that he could use that to protect Hermione. But then came the Cattermoles. He just couldn’t stop putting himself in Reginald Cattermole’s shoes. The thought of Hermione sitting in that courtroom while that toad smirked down at her...every time he thought about it, he wanted to puke. And Mary hadn’t even been anyone of real importance to Umbridge: how much worse would it be if she caught them? Could Hermione not see how bad this really was? Did he want her to?

“Hermione...I need you to listen to me, there’s something important I need you to promise me, ok?”  

She studied his face, her eyes locking with his, “You know I would do anything you needed me to.”

Did he? For the most part, yes, but he knew she was not going to like what he was about to ask of her. He took a deep breath and continued before he lost his nerve.

“In case...in case something happens...to me,” he tried to finish, but the sight of tears in her eyes made him lose his momentum. 

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it was hard as steel, “don’t say that...don’t ever say that.”

“I have to...we have to...look, I’m going to do my damndest to stick around, to keep you safe, to keep all of us safe, but,” he ignored her shaking head, “but you have to promise me, in case something does happen.”

“Promise what exactly.’

“Promise me you will go.”

“Go where?”

“To Australia...to your parents,” it wasn’t ideal, but it was the best he could do.

“Leave Harry?”

“No...yes...damn it Hermione, I don’t know! I just want you safe.” 

“I want you safe too, would you make that promise to me? Would you leave if something happened to me?” 

“Don’t want to think about it,” he closed his eyes, swearing under his breath, “s’not a fair question really?”

“Why not? Why can you give me a “in case” and I can’t? ”

“Because in that “case” I can’t see myself giving a single fuck what happened to me,”  a tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t try to stop it.

“Don’t you think I feel that way too?’

Did he? Isn’t that what he wanted? It was wonderful, awful thing...that she might, truly feel for him what he felt for her. 

“What do we do, then?” that he had spoken the question aloud seemed to surprise her just as much as it did him.

“What we always do...keep each other going.”

“Keep each other safe.” 

Ron’s fears were by no means assuaged, but he had learned when not to argue with Hermione. He knew there was no way to convince her, well, because there would be no way to convince him. As much as it might appear, on the surface, that they were different, he had grown to appreciate just how alike they really were. 

“Do you want me to let you rest? I’ve got some reading to do, I could do it outside or,” she looked suddenly shy especially considering the gravity of their conversation,  “I could stay here...in case.”

“In case?”

“Well, in case you need me.”

Hadn’t he all but spelled out to her just how much he did? How he couldn’t stand the thought of a world, magical or muggle, without her in it? Why was it so hard for her, for him, for them to let go of those last few scraps of insecurity? 

“I think we have already established that’s always the case, even when I’m too pigheaded to admit it.”