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They were too young to have been to so many funerals. That was all Hermione could think of as she climbed the stairs, her tights causing her legs to itch in the early summer heat. Although, it occurred to her, was there even a normal number of funerals to have attended by any age?
She had reached the landing outside of Ron's door but she didn't knock. For just a moment, she stood there, eyes closed, trying to pretend that she was knocking on his door for a different reason—a happier one. But she couldn't stall forever, and her imagination wasn't a strong enough fighter to win the battle with her brain's logical and realistic nature.
She knocked quickly. The sound was louder than she'd meant for it to be.
"Come in," Ron said. His voice sounded so quiet, and Hermione's throat felt tight with the knowledge that it wasn't just because of the buffer between them.
Inside, Ron was almost finished getting dressed. This funeral was taking place in a Muggle cemetery, so they had forsaken their dress robes for attire more appropriate to that setting. For Hermione that meant a conservative black dress (one of several she'd had to buy) and tights. Ron, meanwhile, would have to wear a suit. Currently he was in his slacks and white button-down shirt, which was still crisp from Mrs. Weasley's ironing that morning. He was in the process of tying his tie, which was dark grey. She couldn't help but notice how pale he seemed, especially for it being the start of summer. If it weren't for his hair he would have looked like he was straight out of the old black and white films her parents enjoyed, all neutral tones. As it was, he still appeared decidedly out of place compared to the rest of the room, with all of its bright orange and red adornments.
Hermione hovered in the doorway. "Your dad asked me to tell you that we'll be leaving in about ten minutes," she said.
Ron nodded, adjusting his tie so it hung with the right proportions between the front and the back. Hermione wanted to know how he could do that so expertly, given that ties weren't exactly common in the wizarding world, but she couldn't bring herself to ask.
"Okay," he said, tightening the tie. He picked up his suit jacket from the bed, letting it hang from his hand. His blue eyes drifted up to Hermione's and she felt a pull in her stomach that she knew was entirely inappropriate given what the day held before them.
Hermione opened her mouth, wanting to say something, anything, to bring some sort of normalcy to the moment. But there was nothing to be said. There was no way to make this normal.
In a way, Hermione was glad for that. After the first few she'd been afraid that eventually, as they all stacked up on top of one another throughout that long month of May, funerals might lose their effect on her. It was with twisted pleasure that she knew they never would. Now she could recognize that she'd always enter those days with the same mixture of sadness, pain, disgust, worry, and anger that she'd felt at Dumbledore's. That one felt like a lifetime ago now, even though it hadn't even been a year.
The tears pressed their way into the corners of her eyes with searing heat and unexpected rapidity.
Ron was to her in a second, the jacket forgotten halfway there, thrown onto Harry's old camp bed where it still stood in the center of the room. He didn't say anything, just put his arms around her, his hand on the back of her head, guiding it to his chest.
"I-I'm being ridiculous," she said, a hiccup coming in between shaky breaths.
"No," he said, his arms tightening around her.
She melted into his body, welcoming the embrace even as her eyes dried and she regained her composure. Her hands found his back, pulling him even closer. This, this was what they'd fought for, right? It was right to enjoy it. And, my goodness, was it ever enjoyable. Hermione still felt the same catch in her breath, the same shake up her spine, every time that she and Ron did anything like this—any time that they got to show each other how much they cared, and how that care wasn't the platonic kind they'd pretended it was for so long.
"You know what's ridiculous?" He asked, pulling back slightly.
Hermione held on but backed up just enough to see his face.
"When I woke up this morning," he said, "I had to think about whose funeral was today." He grimaced. "It was just for a second but...I don't know, it was just so gross, to need to think that through."
Hermione frowned at him, unsure of what to say. She settled for bringing a hand around to cup the side of his face. He leaned into her palm, closing his eyes. After a moment he turned his head to the side and her hand slid down his jaw. He pressed his lips to the pad of her extended thumb. Then he ducked down so their foreheads were touching.
"I wish we could just stay here," he said. His breath tickled across her cheeks.
Her hand found its way to the back of his neck now. "Me too," she admitted. She held on for a moment longer, and then another, and another, until the logical voice in her head reprimanded her and insisted that they get back on track.
She pulled back.
"We need to get going," she said.
He moved for the jacket. "I reckon you're right. Mum'll be up here any minute yelling at us to get a move on." He was attempting to make her smile, but they both knew it was in vain. Molly hadn't been in a state to do any such task since the battle, since Fred...
Ron shrugged the jacket on, not bothering to button it yet. He held out his hand to Hermione. "Ready?"
"No," she confessed, but she took his hand anyway.
They made their way downstairs together.