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It’s not like they haven’t lived together before, Hermione thinks to herself. They both went to Hogwarts for six years, and they both stayed at Grimmauld Place, and then they actually lived together in the tent during their seventh year. All of those arguments feel kind of hollow when she considers that it has been years since the war ended, and now, she was going to be a long-term houseguest in Ron’s apartment. Her own little flat was flooded, and she needed a place to stay while her landlord got someone else to fix it, and she had no interest in living with Harry and Ginny for more than a day. She was very happy for them, of course, but there is only so much domestic bliss she can take when the couple in question are both quidditch fanatics.
So, she was going to live with Ron. It would be fine. Just fine.
***
Not fine. Not at all fine. Hermione was having a crisis. Ron’s apartment was nice. Hermione was woman enough to admit, at least in the privacy of her own mind, that she had been expecting his messy, very orange, Chudley Cannons covered bedroom at the Burrow. Or at the very least that dingy little place he had when he first moved out by himself that Hermione kind of remembers not even having a kitchen, for Merlin’s sake. The auror job must be well paid for this to be possible. But she can’t imagine it pays this well. That is a lovely lamp. Then she remembers that Molly and Arthur Weasley raised seven children on a single low-government salary. They must have taught their children to budget. That at least made sense. What did not make sense was that Ronald Weasley had taste.
Ron’s design sense is homely and cosy, and clean. Feet are under no circumstances allowed on the couch, as made clear by the tick in Ron’s eye whenever Hermione does it. He has a huge bed and makes Hermione sleep there while he uses the couch, which is surprisingly gentlemanly of him. Ron does the Quibbler crossword every morning. And he wears reading glasses. Had he needed those during school? Because that would explain a lot about his study habits back then.
Ron has somehow become a fully functioning adult, and she feels like she has let herself slip a little in comparison. Hermione still thinks she’s doing well when she’s still got clean underwear on laundry day and manages three meals a day that doesn’t primarily consist of bread with nothing on it. Ron has a linen closet. What is happening?
She privately starts off thinking it’s utterly hilarious that Ron-no manners-Weasley does the morning crosswords and cares about scuffs on his furniture. She naturally takes notes so she can do a full write-up later for Harry and Ginny to laugh about. Like the fact that Ron has more cleaning products than bath products, and he has plenty of bath products, there’s moisturiser, cleanser, hair salon shampoo and conditioner, coconut body wash and Hermione didn’t know it was possible to get an actually nice-smelling aftershave. There’s a clean linen scented candle on the windowsill in the bathroom. She feels like she’s stepped into a new universe. And kind of like she needs to put more effort into her general appearance. It’s not that she doesn’t, it’s just that her general attitude is more inclined towards part-time effort, like for special events and such. Ron has a routine. Hermione thinks that if she were to make up a schedule then she could do that too, she’s just rather surprised that Ron ended up doing it before she did.
There is a welcome mat, curtains that just graze the floor, a gallery wall of family and friends, and plants. Alive plants. She recognises dittany and moly among the general greenery. She’s also nearly certain that the Wiggentree in the corner was at least two years old, considering Neville had given all of them one as well as a Christmas present that year. She hopes hers is having a good time at Neville and Hannah’s place while she’s here.
There are at least seven well-thumbed cookbooks in the kitchen, three with Mrs Weasley’s handwriting and one that Ron has clearly written, in legible handwriting. Ron still listens to the radio, and he grinds his own coffee beans. When Ron pulls out the grapefruit spoons for the first time, Hermione thinks she might give herself an aneurysm for trying to hold in hysterical laughter because the spoons are so that they can eat the organic grapefruit from the farmer’s market that Ron picked out himself to support the local farmers.
Then, at around two or three days in, the ‘fully functional adult’-thing somehow becomes… not a joke. In fact, before Hermione quite realises it, the not-joke has morphed into something incredibly attractive. And maybe a tiny, very small portion of how much she’s coming to enjoy living with Ron could be because of the feeling she gets when waking up in his huge, pillowy bed, how it feels almost like it’s where she belongs, especially when Ron’s already making breakfast pancakes for the both of them because no child of Molly Weasley would ever be stingy with food. It feels quiet and homey, like a boyfriend making her breakfast. Not Ron, of course, but a random other boyfriend that Hermione could theoretically have one day. You know, in the future.
It’s just very easy to get used to, is all. And the dreaded feeling of knowing that this is not forever makes her even more reluctant to get out of bed in the mornings. Ron gets up at five so he has time to work out before going to the ministry.
***
Three weeks later, even Hermione can admit that the situation is becoming semi-permanent. Her landlord is a loathsome little toad of a man that wouldn’t know a levitation charm from the patronus charm, not that she believed that sorry excuse of a wizard would be capable of either with his clearly deteriorating mind. He is selling the building with Hermione’s home, and she’s being thrown out. Alright, fine, it’s not a home, it’s more of a storage unit with all her things. But that is not the point!
Ron has been really gracious about letting her stay indefinitely, even now that indefinitely is proving to be longer than either of them expected it to be. She does have her own money, so it’s not like she is really in trouble, but she hates apartment hunting. And she’s… well, she is just taking her time to really make a good decision. Which has everything to do with her meticulously-research-y nature and nothing to do with impressing Ron with her grown-up skills. Because she doesn’t like Ron that way. At all.
She particularly does not like the way he pushes his reading glasses up his nose when doing the crossword. Not in the least when he plays four chessboards at once and seemingly winning most of them and reaching a tie when he doesn’t. Because that would be ridiculous.
She’s now included in the household chores, and she made a chore chart, because of course she did, and Ron hung it on the fridge. He is also now starting to show the strain of sleeping on his couch every night. There are bags under his eyes, and his shoulders look tense every time she sees him, and that can’t be good for an auror.
She sighs, looking at him across the breakfast table set with matching plates and cutlery with homemade hash browns, scrambled egg and sausage. Ron’s hunched over a crossword puzzle, absently massaging his own shoulder and wincing.
“You’re not sleeping on the couch in your own home anymore. It’s not right.”
“I usually don’t have houseguests,” Ron shoots back. “They all take the floo home, or I take the couch for a night, so it isn’t a problem.”
“Is that your way of throwing me out?”
“No. Just saying I’m not getting another bed.” He says and lifts his hand while gesturing wildly. “Besides, just where would I put it?”
She rolls her eyes in response.
“Have you seen your bed?” Hermione scoffs. “I think it’s big enough for the two of us.”
Ron recoils and flailing away from Hermione in a rather dramatic fashion.
“I am not sleeping with you!” he says in a scandalised stage whisper. She kind of wants to imagine him in his great aunt Muriels pearls with his hand clutching at them. She enjoys the mental image before considering his refusal. Which is a bit hurtful, if she’s being honest. Does she smell bad or something? She lifts her eyebrow in judgement. He relents quickly enough.
“Wear socks if you have cold feet,” Ron announces by way of agreement.
***
Hermione has forgone the socks. The awkwardness hanging in the air is more than enough to keep her awake without adding socks of all things. It has also finally occurred to her that there is only one bed, and she insisted on sharing it. She’s practically hanging off it in her effort to stay on her side. Ron has also finally provided her with proof that he hasn’t been replaced by a copy by being a complete and utter blanket hog. She doesn’t know whether to be pleased that he still has flaws or furious that she now doesn’t have a blanket. The latter becoming more and more prominent as time passes.
She knows that he’s still awake too, so really, he’s just being a berk because he is also suffocating in the tense atmosphere in the room. She’s had enough. She scoots towards the middle, so she’s properly on the bed again. Hermione gathers her Gryffindor courage. He’s valiantly pretending to sleep when she turns over so she can face him. He rolls away, and she takes the opportunity to put both her feet on his now open target of a back. Ron jumps into the air with a rather satisfying shout. She doesn’t try to stop her laughter at the sight.
“I said to wear socks if you had cold feet! It was just this morning,” he complains loudly.
She places her also cold hands on his neck in response, enjoying the way he struggles to get away to safety while still snuggling into the blanket for warmth.
“I wouldn’t be cold if you didn’t steal the entire blanket”, she reasons back.
He looks somewhat affronted by that. And she will not be admitting aloud to anyone that the disgruntled, sleeply look he’s wearing is rather cute. His hair is all mussed, and he looks soft, and maybe she can admit she’s falling, just a little. “I didn’t steal it. It’s mine.”
“You have six siblings and still don’t know how to share,” she teases.
“Says you,” he says accusingly. “You’re the only child that waited a month to feel bad about letting your host sleep on the couch.”
She feels a little bad about that, actually. It must show on her face because his softens immediately.
“Don’t ‘Mione, ’twas my choice,” he yawningly assures her while burrowing into the blanket again, but he lifts it invitingly for her after just a moment. She smiles gently in response and snuggles close. They both fall asleep quickly after that.
***
Ron is laying on his side, curled against Hermione. His arm is curled around Hermione’ waist, and his leg is thrown across Hermione’ butt. Hermione refuses to wonder if the gentle pressure on her hip is an arm or something else. Instead, turning her head to look at him, Hermione considers how she can possibly extract herself from this situation cleanly when Ron’s eyes flutter open and meet hers.
“Hi,” Hermione says weakly.
Ron stares for a moment, grunts in acknowledgement, and then rolls off Hermione.
“I’ll get breakfast started,” he says gruffly.
And apparently, that is the end of that.
***
It happens again the next night – both the cuddling and the lack of confrontation – and Hermione has to accept that waking up with her nose pressed up against Ron’s shoulder blades or with Ron drooling on her shoulder is, for whatever reason, going to be considered normal. It’s actually kind of nice.
This morning Ron doesn’t move away, though. Instead, he sighs deeply and nuzzles her shoulder. “Ron?” she prompts gently.
“Don’t move out. We’re getting the rest of your stuff today and you’re moving in to stay. With me”
She smiles giddily.
“Deal.”
He kisses her shoulder.
“How’s that for ‘emotional range of a teaspoon’?”