books & cleverness

There it was. For the first time that day, Hermione’s words seemed truly genuine - and, if they weren’t, she’d gotten so good at lying that Ron couldn’t tell. He didn’t know what to say regarding Kingsley and the Ministry, as her concerns weren’t something he’d ever thought much about. He knew the wizarding world regarded them as heroes, but it was hard to imagine Kingsley parading them around like circus animals; after all, he’d seen what the Ministry and previous Ministers had done to Harry, and Ron had to believe that counted for something. His respect for the man had yet to be challenged, though he wasn’t going to downplay Hermione’s fear. Who knew what would happen? Nothing was certain.

The downside to her newfound honesty, though, was the way her words tugged at Ron’s heartstrings. He wished he knew how to tell her that her life was worth bettering, that he would do it himself if he knew the way. But, he settled for tightening his grip and running his thumb across the back of her hand.

“And you know that’s okay, right?” he asked after a beat.

“Being confused, do you mean?” Hermione frowned in thought and looked out over the rolling fields.

Was it alright to not know what to do with your life? Hermione had never even contemplated such a thing. She’d been so used to planning every aspect of her life (well, her professional life, at least), that to actually slow down and take a moment seemed counter-intuitive.

The influx of people squeezed Ron out of the lift - just as well, as he wouldn’t have moved of his own accord. Why he hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Hermione was beyond him; he knew she frequented the Ministry, but…it was a big place. Was it so mad to hope their paths wouldn’t cross for two whole hours?

Evidently. 

His feet were leaden, and it was by some stroke of luck that he didn’t trip head-first into her. Judging by the look on her face one would think he’d tried to scare her - was that a squeak? - and a fresh pang of guilt reverberated through him. 

“Er, yeah…nope.”

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck where a red flush began to prickle to life. He clearly wasn’t at the shop, but he also wasn’t the least bit prepared to fess up. He could lie - say he was dropping off some patents or visiting Arthur - but there was no way she would believe him. And, even if she did, she would find out the truth eventually. 

A heavy exhale deflated him, shoulders drooping. “I, uh…went to see Robards. In the Auror offices.”

Hermione wished the ground would open up and swallow them. Clearly, Ron hadn’t expected to see her - and clearly she hadn’t expected to see him. Hermione had simply assumed he would be at the shop - Merlin knew his brother needed the support - but now she cursed the fact she hadn’t even bothered to check. Their little lives had gone around as if on autopilot for a few months now. At some point it was going to alter, but Hermione hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon.

Then Ron slumped, and the truth was out. Hermione blinked at him. Robards? The Auror offices? She closed her eyes for a moment, processing, and when she opened them again, Ron looked just as shifty.

“You mean you... Oh, gosh, Ron. That’s brilliant!” Hermione smiled past her confusion and impulsively pulled him into a hug. They were beginning to attract glances from passing Ministry employees - was that Hermione Granger? Ron Weasley too? Whatever could they be doing here, unless... - and so Hermione pulled back but kept one hand on Ron’s shoulder. Their eyes met, and any hesitation Hermione felt melted away, and she smiled sheepishly.

Ron’s face betrayed his confusion. He wasn’t dim - Hermione was skirting around something - but if he took her words at face value he supposed he could understand. They were all far from safe, even now. Voldemort’s followers were still scattered about the country, and it was entirely possible that Hermione’s parents were still targets. His brows were furrowed as he nodded, though, blue eyes suddenly sharp. Hermione seemed so fixated on doing something, on helping, but why she was reluctant to extend that desire to her own small family was a mystery. 

He tugged her gently into motion once again, continuing their foray along the grassy ridge. It was easier to talk when he didn’t have to look her in the eye.

“I’m staying,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “It may not be for the ‘greater good’ or as noble or important as whatever you’ve got in mind for yourself but…I have to.”

They need me. It was unspoken, mostly because Ron didn’t know if it was true. 

“What about you, then? What’s on your mind?”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest - then stopped herself. Why should she argue? Ron was right, in his own way. Hadn’t his family given enough? Hadn’t he given enough? As usual, Hermione felt a slight pang of regret for her hard-headed approach. Insensitivity was something she felt she always struggled with. It was simply so easy to take a macro view of an issue, to distil it down to neat portions, instead of to consider the gritty reality. 

“No,” Hermione relented. “No. I understand.”

They walked for a while longer. The breeze carried the sound of the distant ocean, and the sunlight was warm on their skin. Hermione lifted her face up and closed her eyes briefly, savouring the feeling that she belatedly recognised as freedom. Yes, they were, weren’t they? They were free.

| fancy meeting you here |

The lift doors closed, and with a lurch it rattled upward. By some miracle Ron was alone, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He was no stranger to the Ministry of Magic, but that didn’t stop him feeling uncomfortable. He supposed it had something to do with having illegally broken in once or twice, but his discomfort was historical, dating back to his very first visit with his father. The Ministry had always held an air of importance to Ron - it was a very important place for very important people - and no matter how much recognition or how many accolades he’d received of late he didn’t count himself among them.

He tugged at the knot in his tie with a freckled hand, recalling just how much he’d agonized over wearing the thing. (Was it too much? Did it make him seem desperate? Why would a tie make him seem desperate? Of all the things the Auror Department could dismiss him for, a tie wasn’t going to be the one. Just wear the fucking tie.) From the moment he entered Robards’ office he wanted to rip it off and throw it in the bin, but the Head of the Auror Department didn’t seem to notice it - in fact, he didn’t seem to notice much of anything about Ron. Gawain Robards was old and perpetually exhausted, so perhaps it wasn’t so much that he didn’t notice anything about Ron, but rather that he just didn’t have it in him to care. Was that better? Ron didn’t know. Either way, their meeting hadn’t gone terribly. As old and tired as Robards was, he was determined; when he reached out to give Ron’s hand one final shake, there was a glint - a fire - in his dark eyes that reminded Ron very suddenly of Alastor Moody.

His training was to begin the following Monday. This fact had yet to sink in. What was he going to tell George? Or his mother? He gulped, shoving slightly sweaty hands into his pockets as the lift ground to a halt. What was he going to tell Hermione?

“Level eight, the Atrium.”

 The doors and golden grilles jangled open, and when Ron finally looked up his stomach plummeted. 

Better decide fast.

@witchbrightest

Hermione wasn’t sure what she was going to tell Ron.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite true. She had concocted and dismissed a few excuses for when she returned to the Burrow that evening. So far she’d managed to slip by with variations of ‘Oh, Kingsley wanted me for something’, which wasn’t the best excuse in the world, but it would have to do. In fact, it was such a Harry-like excuse in the fact that it was essentially an anti-excuse, and perhaps it was her own bruised melancholy that meant Hermione kept using it, if only to imagine the words in Harry’s timbre.

She strode down the marble corridor, her heels clicking on the white stone. Minister Shacklebolt had summed her no less than three times this week, each time to engage in debate and discussion over the minutiae of a potential position within his department. Hermione was awfully close to being convinced; in fact, she had made up her mind on Tuesday. But, true to form, she kept recalling particulars that made her sit bolt upright at night (Ginny, stirring in her bed, throwing an arm over her eyes as Hermione fought the duvet and hurried over to the desk where her faithful notebook lay) to scribble down ideas. If she was going to do this, it needed to be water-tight. Hermione wanted their arrangement iron-clad in the event of... well, the Ministry didn’t exactly have a good track record, did it?

The golden grill of the lift glinted in the moody mid-morning light. Hermione nodded hello to a potential colleague and rang down to the Atrium. As the lift descended, she watched the numbers speed by and permitted her mind to drift back over her conversation with Minister Shacklebolt. The issue was over semantics (of course). The Minister would have liked to make something of a to-do about Hermione joining the Ministry. Hermione wanted to be left alone. The Minister thought a ceremony or some media would be good coverage; Hermione wanted a quiet desk and carte blanche to do as she liked. She understood why Kingsley needed it to be splashed about that he’d head-hunted one of the so-called Golden Trio, but Hermione thought she was allowed to feel a little disgruntled, particularly when he had initially acquiesed to her request for privacy.

The lift sighed open and Hermione stepped out into the Atrium. Paper planes zipped through the air, and the hall was a hubbub of conversation, with witches and wizards hurrying to and fro, clutching briefcases or summoning mountains of paperwork to float in their wake. Hermione adjusted her own pile of paperwork - and stopped dead. “Golly,” she muttered, annoyed. Her notebook! It was back upstairs, likely in the poky room Minister Shacklebolt had assigned to her (she was convinced this was his idea of a joke, but it wasn’t very funny).

Sighing, Hermione did an about-face and started back towards the lifts. It was only as she looked up from the floor, frowning in thought, that the lift slid open to reveal the very last person she expected.

Hermione stopped dead and - to her utter mortification - squeaked in surprise.

Resisting the urge to clap a hand over her mouth, Hermione merely stared at Ron for a good minute, or so it felt like. A crowd gathered at the lift soon spilled inwards and Ron was forced out, enough that they were standing face-to-face, in the middle of a busy Atrium on a mid-week morning, lost for words.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione fidget. Seven-odd years of friendship had given him insight into her mannerisms, and guilt coursed through his body. He hadn’t meant to seem angry with her; he prepared to backpedal, but when she stopped and faced him his apology died in his throat.

“I’m not running,” he said firmly, his brows still furrowed. “And we have helped, Hermione, but it’s only been a month and I'm…”

Ron trailed off, holding Hermione’s gaze with lips still parted. The breeze strengthened, whipping a shock of red hair from one side of his forehead to the other. 

“I’m just tired, is all.”

He almost winced at how pathetic it sounded. Once again he looked down at the ground, at their hands still joined. His shoulders rose and fell in a feeble shrug.

“I get it, you’re right, but we spent the last year saving the world and…now I’ve got other things to worry about,” he explained, hoping she wouldn’t ask him to elaborate. But, he momentarily exempted himself from such discretion when a thought pushed its way to the front of his mind.

“And what about your parents?” he asked, raising his gaze to search her face again. It was a legitimate, innocent question, but his voice still softened when he asked it.

Hermione supposed there was an element of truth in what Ron was saying. They could, of course, go off and live their own lives, perhaps in the country, where they could be wonderfully alone... But then a little voice piped up in the back of Hermione’s mind, and she reminded herself that they still had a duty. Their work was not yet done.

Ron’s admission made Hermione’s heart squeeze. Her eyebrows crinkling in sympathy, she held Ron’s hand tightly and hoped he would understand without her saying that she knew how he felt. Hermione wasn’t adverse to magical medicine - she recalled shrinking her teeth when she was a teenager - but there was something about taking Sleeping Draughts and the like that filled her with the sort of distrust she used to reserve for her parents, who would get a bit funny about some magic. There are some things you just don’t mess with, and all that. Hermione used to laugh at them and, privately, think they were small-minded. Now... she wondered.

“What’s on your mind?” The question was delivered gently, but Hermione’s eyes sparked with curiousity. They hadn’t quite talked about what they were going to do; honestly, she’d rather suspected Ron would prefer to skirt the issue altogether. Living at home with Mrs Weasley as caretaker did not seem like a bad idea, at least from the abstract point of view. Hermione could see how it would be appealing, particularly if Ron needed to rest.

But then Ron was looking at her, searching her face, and Hermione felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“Oh!” Shit. Hermione paused for a pronounced moment, her mind whirring, before she felt the doors swing closed. What was she doing? She had never lied to Ron before (at least, not for things that mattered). She ought to be honest.

Victory. The word never sat right with Ron; it didn’t feel like they’d won anything. Voldemort was dead and his reign of terror was waning, sure, but Ron had yet to experience the peace that was supposed to bring. How was the war a success when he’d lost not one, but two brothers? What was there to celebrate when Harry and Fred couldn’t celebrate with them? He supposed he agreed with Hermione, though - he didn’t know how he wanted people to react either. Perhaps he didn’t want them to react at all? They would never be that lucky and Hermione said as much, but Ron found himself pushing against the idea, his brow knitted.

“Why not? Wasn’t that the point of all this anyway?" 

With a surprising amount of control he kept his tone level, smoothing the edges and keeping his (very real and very present) frustration at bay.

"I mean,” he continued, seemingly unable to stop himself, “we did everything we were supposed to do. Harry did too. I reckon we’ve earned as normal a life as we want.”

Hermione elected to ignore the tightness emerging in Ron’s tone. She didn’t want to fight - it would do no one any good, and besides that, Ron often felt like her remaining ally. He probably was her only ally.

She shook her head quickly enough that a cloud of dark curls spilled over her shoulders and obscured her eyes. Impatiently, she pushed back a shelf of hair behind one ear and stopped walking, turning to face Ron, their hands still entwined. Everything would be fine, so long as they kept holding hands. There was a frightening, fragile part of her that feared what it might mean if that bond broke.

“Of course we can live normal lives!” Hermione wasn’t entirely convinced of this, but she decided to put aside her qualms for sake of argument. “I’ve obviously explained myself poorly. What I mean is, the Ministry being in its current state, I think it’s only right that we try and help as much as we can. With Harry -- Only you and I understand how we can stay out of this awful mess. We can’t...” She surreptitiously inhaled, steeling herself.

Ron allowed himself to be led along the grassy ridgeline, loathe to let go of Hermione’s hand. He matched her pace, strides much longer and therefore slower, but she didn’t seem in too much of a hurry and that was just as well. Ron used their meandering speed as a buffer, looking down at his own feet. They scuffed the slightly overgrown grass. 

Her words ushered in the stark, terrifying loneliness he’d been plagued with since Harry’s passing. It was true that no one quite understood how he and Hermione felt (he thought of Ginny and promptly forced himself to stop), and for a beat another buried fear pushed its way to the surface. If he and Hermione only had each other, what did that mean if things went sour? It wasn’t something he’d given too much thought - there were so many other things to dwell on - but it was always there in the back of his mind. He cast a glance at her then, the wind toying with a bit of her hair. The way it fluttered was reminiscent of how it bounced when she leapt into his arms before the battle, slamming her lips against his. He suppressed a shiver, paying for it when he felt his cheeks grow hot. There was no mistaking that, he told himself, but self-doubt was not easy to kill. They were holding hands, weren’t they? She’d kissed him not two minutes ago, but was that because she pitied him?

Suddenly, she squeezed his hand. The small gesture silenced his thoughts, made his face flush and his freckles dim. How could he not believe her? Hermione rarely said things she didn’t mean. 

“No one?”

There was an ever so slight tease in his voice, a lilt that felt foreign on his tongue. But if she was going to be honest, he was too. 

“Me either,” he agreed, returning her squeeze. “Clearly. Dunno if I could talk to anyone else, come to think of it. Have you noticed the way people look at us now? Like they don’t know whether to congratulate us or pity us?”

Ron’s teasing tone made her smile, and she glanced at him, an air of flirtation momentarily buoyed by the ocean breeze. But then Ron continued to speak, and she found herself frowning, in part reflectively.

It was undoubtedly true that ‘saving the Wizarding world’, as the Prophet continued to herald from every corner of Britain, had tossed them into an unprecedented level of scrutiny and hero worship that Hermione, having been exposed to it once before during the Triwizard Tournament, instinctively shied away from. She thought fleetingly of her upcoming meeting with Minister Shacklebolt and internally grimaced; explaining that she wanted nothing more to do with the public eye was not going to be an easy conversation.

Hermione stopped herself before she got caught up in her own thoughts. She sighed and adjusted their hands; their palms pressed flush together.

The office for the Minister of Magic was marvelous.

A midnight blue dome ceiling glittered with a living tapestry of the current constellations. Strange objects twittered and emitted puffs of colourless smoke. Kingsley’s desk was large and mahoghany, and he himself sat in a wingback chair with its back to floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. The morning glowed with late summer sunlight, casting the illustrious office in a halo of diffused yellow light. A sunbeam cast over Hermione’s hands, which were folded in her lap, and made her skin burn bronze.

Kingsley met her gaze and smiled indulgently at her. He was a statuesque dark-skinned black man, with a prominent Roman nose, and wide, almond-shaped eyes, like a cat. His robes were in the fashion of the day: deep purple, with gold piping; and the hat he wore bore the crest of the Ministry in a wonderful thread that altered its colour every few moments. In contrast, Hermione had dressed in the best robes she had left. She self-consciously adjusted her sleeves and returned Kingsley’s smile.

“I am pleased you returned my invitation.” Kingsley’s voice, a warm baritone, gave the impression of competance and calm. A lawyer’s voice. “I understand how... difficult these past few weeks must have been for you.”

“They haven’t been easy,” Hermione replied, and Kingsley inclined his head.

“Still. Thank you for meeting with me. I am sure a witch of your capabilities can discern the motivation for our meeting.”

Hermione had attended for a sole purpose: to speak the truth. She straightened surreptitiously in her chair and tilted her chin up. “I have.”

Kingsley raised his eyebrows, although the action was more curious than disagreeable. “And?”

“You want me to work for you in the Ministry.” Hermione paused delicately. “And I can only imagine that capacity to be a public-facing one.”

Hermione’s laugh awakened something inside him. Ron’s heart, lying amidst the rubble of his composure, gave a feeble stir before it suddenly sprouted wings. If her voice was a soothing balm, her laughter was an elixir; the warmth that spread to the ends of his fingers and toes was better than any Pepper-up potion he’d ever touched, and for a moment he could’ve been convinced that all was not lost. She drew back then, though not far. His first instinct was the shrink away from her, to hide his face (he knew he looked blotchy and pathetic), but her hands seized it before he could move. They were cool, his skin tingling at her touch; her eyes sparkled, but her smile made Ron’s mouth follow suit.

“M'hmm.”

For the first time, his smile didn’t wither in response. It shrank, but he focused on taking her hands as gently as he could (after she’d peeled them off his face, anyway), buying himself more time. When he raised his eyes again he sighed.

“I don’t know what to do about it.”

The light shone fleetingly yet brilliantly from Ron, and Hermione’s heart swelled at the sight. It was testament to the fallout from the war that she could barely recall a display of such happiness. Aside from a few smiles with his family, Ron had been withdrawn, pensive. The only other time Hermione could liken it to was when they were horcrux hunting, or perhaps when he and Harry fought in fourth year. The two situations were diametrically opposed in severity, of course, but the point was that Ron was rarely gone. Morose, yes (usually because of their schoolwork - or quidditch); frustrated, certainly. But depressed? 

Privately, Hermione worried how she could pull them back from this. She hadn’t lied to Ron, not really: she did want them to work together towards a better future, for themselves and for their world generally. But doing that meant a host of things she wasn’t sure she could do in their entirety. Honesty, acceptance, forgiveness. Because as much as she wanted to weep for Harry, she was also furious at him. How stupid, to walk into the Forest knowing what was going to happen, without saying anything - to any of them! How selfish, and cruel, and -

Hermione’s eyes sparked with tears and she swept them away, irritated at herself. She hoped Ron mistook the emotion for sadness - and there was a great heap of that mixed in there - but she had to swallow against the hard lump in her throat. What had her parents taught her? Don’t speak ill of the dead.

Well, I won’t, Harry, she thought, but how can I possibly forgive you?

“I don’t either,” Hermione replied, half in her own head. She focused on Ron and tried another watery smile. Like his, it was firmer this time, although as they looked away from each other Hermione’s face fell. Dashing away her tears once more, Hermione kept Ron’s hand tangled in her own, and prompted them to start walking along the ridge that wound sleepily away from the Burrow.

“I want to figure it out, though,” she continued, glancing at Ron as they kept pace. “And we can only do that if we talk about it. Believe me, I don’t want to -” Dredge it all up. “But there’s no one else who understands what we -- what any of us have been through. And I don’t want to talk to anyone else.” 

A tiny voice in the back of his mind piped up, protesting. ’Stop!’ it said. ’Keep it together!’ But for what? For who? For Hermione? Her voice was thick when she spoke, even in a whisper, but her arms wound around him and it was obvious whose strength was enduring. Ron might have heeded that voice of protest, might have straightened up and pretended he’d gotten something in his eye. But his embarrassment was nothing compared to how completely and unbelievably tired he felt. He couldn’t fight anymore. The walls around his broken heart crumbled, his last defenses against the weight of the war’s end. They broke into large, sharp pieces that sent tears careening through his tightly closed eyelids, coming to rest somewhere in Hermione’s hair. None of this was strictly new - tears were shed after the battle, of course, and the funerals that followed - but now it was just them. It was just the two of them, Ron and Hermione, alone. Perhaps that fact had taken a battering ram to Ron’s defenses, but it wasn’t that simple - not anymore. 

He struggled to regain control of himself, focusing on Hermione’s soothing hand at his back. As clearly distraught as he was, he did not sob; he swallowed them like great boulders when they rose in his throat, his breath ragged around them. Then, feather-light and barely there, Hermione pressed a kiss against his ear. He tightened his hold, and he found himself pressing a much firmer one to the top of her head. 

‘I’m here,’ she kept saying, and after a few more long moments of breathing deeply and swaying in the early summer breeze, he managed to speak too. 

“Thank Merlin.”

Ron’s voice made her smile, and she laughed, though the sound was wobbly and accompanied by a fresh prickling of tears. She unwound hand to dash at her eyes, then pulled back slightly to look at Ron.

His face was blotchy, which made his freckles stand out even more, and his hair was on end. But he was so wonderfully, perfectly Ron, that Hermione’s smiled widened. Her heart swelled against her ribcage, and, gently, cupped Ron’s face and smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone.

“Yes,” she murmured, feeling the tug to disappear in Ron’s bright blue eyes. “Thank God for that.”

The lump in her throat grew pronounced; Hermione ducked her head and swallowed painfully. When she surfaced, Ron looked slightly more put together, although she sensed that they were both resisting the urge to fall apart completely. What would happened if they did? There were too many things at stake. The Ministry, Minister Kingsley, Ron’s family, their peers... She and Ron were war heroes - they mattered in this new world. In a way, falling apart was out of the question; it was decidedly not the strategic thing to do.

But, God, how she wanted to.

Hermione belatedly realised she was still holding Ron’s face and lowered her hand, smiling bashfully as she did so. Their hands were linked and they were barely a foot away. Ron’s proximity was as calming to her as the gust of clean ocean air that played across the hilltop, bringing with it an air of possibility that buoyed Hermione’s fragile hopes.

The more he walked, the better he felt. Hermione was right again. When he’d risen from his bed that morning, Ron was stiff and sore - he felt old - but with every step over the spongy terrain his youth returned. By the time they reached the crest of the hill there was a fine sheen of sweat beneath the ginger hair on his forehead, but he breathed deeply, feeling for perhaps the first time in a month like he could. 

The air was crisp, a hint of sea salt on the breeze. Slightly narrowed blue eyes scanned the landscape. None of it was unfamiliar - not the trees, not the large swaths of heather, nor the far-off sea - but it didn’t look the same either. It didn’t feel the same. Ron licked his lips, brow furrowing in thought. Hermione’s fingers suddenly constricted around his, drawing him back; he looked at her, and his mouth twitched, almost mirroring her smile. But then she spoke, and Ron’s stomach dropped.

How could she talk about him so easily? How was she so brave, so unafraid to bring up their lost friend the way he deserved?

And why couldn’t Ron do the same?

The lump in his throat was instantaneous, and no matter how many times he tried he couldn’t swallow it. He looked away, something akin to panic rising within him when he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. His gaze fixed on the ocean, a point far enough away that it felt safe. He wanted to respond, but when he opened his mouth the only thing he uttered was a small, strangled sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Fuck.

He blinked and several tears fell, finally overflowing. That familiar feeling of desperation took hold of him again, and without a word he gathered Hermione in his arms and pressed his face into her hair.

At first, Hermione took Ron’s silence for assent. After all, although uttering Harry’s name caused something spiky to twist in Hermione’s chest, she was determined to make good on her promise that they would talk. Hermione didn’t flatter herself in thinking that she was even as remotely emotionally attuned as, say, Padma Patil, but since the war she had made an effort to be emotionally available, as difficult as that was for her.

But then Ron pulled her into his arms, and she realised she’d dreadfully miscalculated.

“Oh!” Hermione stood there, stunned, for a mere moment, before the reality of Ron’s response made her arms wind around his middle and hold him tight. Closing her eyes and tilting her face into his neck, she pushed past the tears that prickled and concentrated on Ron’s smell: fresh laundry, coffee, something like baking bread. She was reminded of her Amortentia results and felt her stomach swoop in exictement and apprehension.

“It’s alright.” Hermione’s voice stuck around the lump in her throat and she struggled to clear it. The pain was such that she momentaily feared she would choke. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

Ron was warm and solid against her. Hermione found herself rubbing his back in the manner of her own mother. A sense of loss - as it related to both Harry and her own late parents - made her swallow with difficulty. Something strangled in her chest and she recognised that she was fighting back the urge to cry. It would be selfish to let go when Ron obviously needed her support - she’d cry later, alone.

“I’m here,” Hermione murmured, her voice little more than a whisper. And before she thought too much about it, she kissed Ron’s exposed earlobe and pulled him further into their embrace.

There was a comfort, Ron found, in performing simple domestic tasks. He moved slowly, but there was something therapeutic about the steady monotony of clearing the table, of once again mounting the stairs, and even of getting dressed once he found himself back in his bedroom. He plucked a clean (it smelled clean, at least) t-shirt off the floor and half-heartedly tried to smooth out the wrinkles. It had to have been several days since he’d worn jeans, but the pair he also snatched up from the floor were well-worn and softer than he expected. 

By the time he returned downstairs, Hermione was gone. Her sneakers were missing from the pile by the door; he stooped to grab his own, shoving them on without untying them. He spotted her then, silhouetted against the open back door. She looked at him, told him something about fresh air…but he didn’t really hear it. The sun had done her plenty of favors while they breakfasted inside, but as she emerged from beneath the eaves of the Burrow Ron’s breath caught in his throat. Her dark hair claimed the early morning sunshine, suddenly igniting into many different shades of brown and black. She looked back at him as he stood in the doorway, and her smile made his stomach flip. 

Where did he want to go? 

Anywhere. 

When he too stepped out into the sunlight, he squinted. The last few days had been overcast, and if he was honest he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone outside; but the sun did feel good on his skin, even if it made his eyes water. They adjusted by the time he reached Hermione, and even Ron was surprised by the ferocity with which he seized her hand. In the back of his mind he replayed his previous attempts that morning, and if he were smarter or more careful or a little less lost he mightn’t have tried again. There was something like desperation coursing through him, and he boldly laced his fingers between hers and led her through the back gate. 

He didn’t know where they were going, truthfully. But did it matter?

Ron’s hand in hers sent something hot and tangled through Hermione’s body. It came to rest somewhere in her midsection, where waves of warmth emanated through her limbs, fingertips; she felt her face heat up and had to resist the urge to duck her head and look away. Instead, she held Ron’s gaze for a heady moment. 

There was understanding in Ron’s eyes, affection too. And, if Hermione dared to think it, something approaching a word that made her heart thump in excitement and nerves.

No, they didn’t need words. But one day, maybe soon, Hermione might like to hear them.

Together they began to ramble. They passed through the back gate and started up a gentle incline to the top of the hill that overlooked the Burrow. The grass was spongy underfoot, the loamy soil having soaked up the intermittent early summer rain. Overhead, the sun beat down upon them, making Hermione’s copper skin glow. The ocean breeze was pleasant on the face. Once they arrived at the top of the hill, Hermione could glimpse the ocean in the distance: a thin blue line, winking in the sunlight.

She breathed in a lungful of fresh air and savoured the taste. Ron’s hand was slightly sweaty in hers - no doubt the result of their walk - but she had no desire to let go, not yet. Instead, Hermione gently tightened her grip and looked over at Ron, smiling when their eyes met.