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There was someone in her room.
Hermione woke with a start, cold sweat trickling down the space between her shoulder blades, the worn flannel of her nightgown feeling unusually abrasive against her sensitive skin as it clung to her back. Breath trapped in her throat, she reached for her wand at once—before remembering with a jolt, when her hand had closed around it—that it wasn’t her wand. It was Bellatrix’s.
She very nearly dropped it until she heard rustling once more, caught movement in the shadows of the room, and was about to cry out the first spell that came to her mind when she heard a panicked voice burst forth from the darkness in a pleading whisper.
“No, don’t! It’s me, Hermione! It’s only me-”
“Ron?”
Relief washed over her and she let the wand fall to the ground, where it hit the threadbare rug with a soft thump. She saw Ron draw himself to full height, standing still for a moment, as though watching for her reaction, before shutting the door behind him. He waited by it for a long time, leaning against it, his hand still closed around the knob, ready to turn it in case she told him to leave. Hermione wondered whether he was scared to come forward, scared of what her response might be if he came any closer.
She reached beside her to turn on the bedside lamp. He must have taken the action as an invitation to stay, because he stepped forward, coming to a stop just at the foot of her bed until she gave him a slight nod to let him know it would be all right to sit. He did so, albeit gingerly, his eyes never leaving hers as though to gauge her reaction.
“What are you doing here?” she said, intentionally softening her voice to dull any kind of accusatory edge.
He seemed to hesitate before answering, briefly breaking the eye contact, before saying, “I… heard you. Your nightmare. I was worried.”
Hermione felt her face grow hot. “Oh,” she said. “God, I’m sorry—I didn’t wake the entire house, did I?”
Ron shook his head.
“But how could… I mean, if you heard me, then surely everyone must have-”
It was something about the way he looked at her in that moment—something about the quick glance at the door that lasted no longer than a hairsbreadth of a second—that made her understand.
“Oh…”
Ron straightened, his eyes searching hers, watching the comprehension dawn in them.
“I was… I was sitting outside your door,” he said softly. And she knew. She knew before he had even said the words. “Just in case you…”
He looked away—an abrupt motion that made Hermione feel as though a lifeline had been severed—and cleared his throat. In the soft glow of the lamp, she could see the rim of red around his eyes, the slight swelling of his eyelids.
He had been crying.
“Ron…”
She didn’t know she had moved closer to him until her fingers touched his on the bed. Startled by the touch, he looked down on their hands, then looked up at her, watching her all the while as he slowly took her hand in his, giving them a gentle squeeze when she didn’t resist.
It was as though the gesture broke some sort of spell, and finally, achingly, she let go, tears spilling from her eyes of their own volition, hot and salty and stinging her mouth, leaving her feeling exposed in front of the last person she would have ever thought she would willingly let herself be vulnerable with.
And that was when she realised: he was probably the only person she could ever be vulnerable with.
His long arms wrapped around hers, cradling her into him, his warmth and his strength and his smell enveloping her. She clung to him, hands gripping his arms so tightly she actually wondered if she might be hurting him. But he said nothing and just held her.
She never wanted him to let go.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you... I’ll never let anyone hurt you again, I promise...”
Hermione didn’t know how much time had passed before the sobs eased. Silence had fallen between them, but there was nothing uncomfortable about it, just the quiet understanding that here in this room, nothing from the outside could penetrate them—not Bellatrix or the war, or the enormous task that still lay ahead of them in destroying Voldemort once and for all. Here in this room, it was simply Ron holding her, stroking her hair, keeping her safe.
In time, she eased off, coming to sitting again, Ron watching her, as though to follow her lead.
The words seemed woefully inadequate, and yet she could think of nothing else to say, nothing else to tell him how much this—how much he—meant to her.
“Thank you.”
He brought his hand up to her face, brushing a loose tendril that had fallen across her forehead, then the lop-sided grin she knew so well began to emerge, the first smile she remembered seeing on his face since they’d come to Shell Cottage. She’d never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life.
“I should... you really should get back to sleep...”
He seemed reluctant to get to his feet, and yet he did so anyway, lingering for a moment at the foot of her bed, before starting to turn on his heel.
“Ron, wait...”
He seemed as surprise as she was that she called out to him. He turned his head to look back at her, his face a mixture of surprise and wonder and hope—and a vulnerability of his own.
“Will you stay?” she said, watching for his reaction, hoping, praying he understood why she needed him here. Why she didn’t need just anyone—she needed him. “Please...”
He nodded, then slowly made his way back to her, sitting down gently on her bed, where she’d made room for him. And without any words, he took her in his arms again as they both lay down, Hermione draping her arm across his waist and only then, closing her eyes.
The last thing she remembered before she finally fell asleep was the sound of his voice murmuring her name. She knew then that everything would be OK.