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The hotel bed was vast - Hermione was sure it was the biggest bed she’d ever been in. The sheets felt crisp underneath her as she lay atop them. it was early in the evening and after a long day of traipsing from dental practice to practice, the heat had gotten the better of them and they had retreated to their room to regroup. Ron had gone out to search for dinner, leaving Hermione back to rest up and cool down.
She was so utterly impressed with how he’d been on this journey. He was careful with her feelings, her mood swings, her fragile mental state. He was always there for her, a hand on her elbow, an arm round her waist. He made sure she was drinking, eating, resting - he’d even taken control of the finances, working out Muggle money with little difficulty and patiently undertaking all their transactions when she was too overwhelmed for more human contact.
Ever since Malfoy Manor, Hermione had known that Ron loved her. Since before then, really, but at that point it had become so clear. In the dark half-light after their arrival at Shell Cottage he had never left her side. In Australia, though, with nothing else to distract them - aside from the small task of finding her parents - something had shifted and she felt nothing but confident in their connection, even at her lowest ebb. It was a strange juxtaposition, the intense bouts of happiness and comfort, the aching sadness and anxiety of yet another hunt.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows and surveyed the room. Her small beaded bag sat open beside the hotel television. Her clothes had accumulated in a neat pile on one of the nondescript hotel chairs - unpacking them into the drawers was too much like admitting that this would take longer than they hoped. Ron’s clothes were an explosion in the opposite corner, but Hermione found she didn’t mind. His mess made it feel like they were still at home, wherever that was now.
It had been so hot out on the streets and Hermione was aware of long locks of her hair sticking to her neck. She decided to hop into the shower before Ron returned. With a small sigh, she grabbed a pair of red pyjama shorts and a black cotton vest and made her way to the bathroom.
She set the water to tepid, relishing the tingling feeling on her skin and scrubbed hard at her skin with a bar of lavender-scented hotel soap. Sloughing off another day of disappointment, she willed her mind to clear and tried to focus on the fact that Ron would be back soon. She could use one of his long-armed, warm and tight hugs, where her head fit neatly under his chin and she could breathe in the scent of him.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed by the time that she turned the water off. She dried herself slowly, mindfully, trying to ground herself, moisturising her body and her hair, gently pulling a wide-toothed comb through it. She pulled on the shorts and top and cracked the door open.
‘Ron?’
‘I’m here!’
She smiled, the tightness in her chest easing properly for the first time since he’d left. She stepped out into the room and found him lying back on the bed. Before she could join him, however, her eyes caught a flash of deepest red and she noticed a modest posy of roses sitting on the sideboard, tied with a purple ribbon. Blinking she looked from them to Ron, whose ears were burning. He shrugged awkwardly.
‘I passed that florist you liked and I just thought you deserved something beautiful.’
She pressed her lips together, fighting the inexplicable urge to cry at his sweetness. He jumped up as he saw her eyes tear up.
‘Hey! It’s ok - I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have - dunno what I was thinking, they’re probably crap —’
’No, no Ron they’re not. They’re really not.’
He was holding her now and she sniffed, looking up at him. He furrowed his brow.
’They’re not?’
’No, they’re the most beautiful thing Ron. I’ve just never had flowers before. It’s nice.’
Ron, who had long ago accepted Hermione’s propensity for tears, seemed to understand in his relief. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
’That’s not everything.’
‘It’s not?’ Hermione laughed, despite herself.
’No. I got your favourite.’
’The pasta?’
’The pasta!’
Grinning he led her over to the bed and summoned their dinner.
Before she sat down, she moved over to the roses and picked up the modest jar that contained them. Gently, she pressed a rose petal between her thumb and finger, breathing in the floral scent. She smiled as she carried them over to her bedside table. She slept on the side of the bed closest to the window, and she turned to Ron to explain.
‘I want to see them in the morning, in the sunlight.’
He beamed at her.
‘Roses are my favourite,’ Hermione said, as they ate. ‘My parents nearly called me Rose, you know.’
‘Really?’ Ron said, with a mouthful of pasta. ‘I think I was nearly Septimus… Bill intervened though.’
He chewed thoughtfully.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I love your name, but Rose is lovely.’
‘I think so too. I sometimes wished I’d been called that, if I’m honest. Hermione was such a pain to explain.’
‘Well, you know what they say - names match their owners.’
’Shut up, Septimus.’