Work Text:
Lovely
Inches between us, counting them down
Midnight's emotion, driving around
I look over at you, and you look at me too
If I just lean in and get out of my head
Don't know what you would do
You're so lovely
You look so lovely
You're so lovely
I wish you'd love me
Fly by Midnight - Lovely
Sometimes the quiet can be suffocating.
Hermione lays awake on the camp bed in Ginny’s room, fighting the restlessness that’s preventing her from getting proper sleep. The events from the long day—retrieving Harry, taking Polyjuice Potion, flying , reconvening at the Burrow—trickle into her mind. Over and over again, she reviews the image of multiple Harry Potters arriving on their brooms, safely landing within the protective enchantments. Each one morphed quickly into their original forms, bringing her thoughts to the moment she discovered Ron and Tonks missed their Portkey, and the subsequent stomach-churning sensation that followed.
The more she rehashes some of the longest minutes of her life, the more her tormenting thoughts start to plant seedlings of doubt on whether or not going on a hunt for Horcruxes is the right thing to do. If she came this close to losing Ron today when others had been—
Now’s not the time to overanalyze every decision you make, Hermione.
She can’t stop herself from always fearing the worst; no matter how hard she squeezes her eyes shut in an attempt to block out her mind, she can’t sleep. Neither, she realizes, can Ron.
Hermione knows the pattern of footsteps creaking up the rickety stairs outside her door—the clunky, somewhat lazy shuffling lacking any subtlety—belongs to her ginger-haired best friend, without the need to check to make sure. She knows it’s him.
The sound of a door clicking shut startles her, but it’s too close for Ron to be back in his attic bedroom. Too curious to lay dormant any longer, Hermione throws off the covers and tiptoes her way out of the room without waking Ginny.
Her feet pad their way quickly and quietly up the crooked steps, only pausing once she sees the light from the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. Ron must be in there, but Hermione hasn't thought of what she will do or say to him once he comes out, until now. . She paces the landing, her stomach contracting into a tight ball.
What is she doing? What should she say? What does she want to say?
Hermione swallows, but is unable to wet her parched throat. Perhaps she should go for a glass of water while she waits. That should give her enough time to think about her conversation with Ron without going completely mental and biting her nails off.
But she only manages to take two steps down the stairs before she hears a lock clicking open. Her heart pounds within her chest as she tries to make a quiet escape without detection, before Ron can—
“Hermione?”
Ron’s voice comes out thick and unsteady, and Hermione can feel the tension in her own jaw as she grinds her teeth together.
Blast.
Wringing her hands, she turns around and offers Ron what must look like a spastic smile. "Oh!” She speaks in a suffocated whisper. “Sorry.”
“Did you, er, need to?” He points to the loo while scratching the back of his neck with his other hand.
“Yes.” Hermione nods her head in rapid succession, climbing up the stairs, careful to avoid the areas on each step that tend to creak the most. “I was going to go to the bathroom.”
“Really?” Ron quirks up one brow, a teasing glint shining in his eye. “So why were you walking away from it?”
"No. No, I—oh forget it, it's ridiculous-"
"Hermione.” Ron’s low voice is stern, and she can tell he’s having difficulty keeping his voice quiet. “What's going on?"
She nibbles on her bottom lip as she presses her back against the nearest wall, her shoulders slumping against it.
When Hermione looks up, she meets Ron’s heated gaze and her heart stumbles over its own rhythm as she takes in his disheveled, sleep-filled hair, set jaw, and the scruff on his chin—when did he become so mature? She always thought she was the one out of their trio who maintained the most control over the dire, nerve-racking situations they’ve been placed in.
But if today assured her of anything, it’s that she’s no longer in control over her feelings for her best friend.
"He's a good flyer. He's going to make it."
Hermione digs her nails into her palm as she whispers, hoping the action can distract her from her thoughts.
Ron stares at her hand movement for a moment before glancing up and blinking a few times. "Wh-what?"
"When you didn't arrive at the Burrow on time.” His gaze softens as recognition of the intention behind her words floods through his eyes. “That's what I was chanting in my head over and over again until you showed."
He leans against the opposite wall in silence as deep stress lines appear on his forehead. His gaze drifts to the floor, making it impossible for Hermione to work out what he could be pondering.
She presses on without the script she had hoped to formulate in her mind. “I knew you were out here, Ron, and I just—”
Her voice falters, not sure what else to say. Although Ron doesn’t speak, he nods as if he understands her completely, and it’s terrifying to know he probably does.
"We lost some today.” Ron props a foot up on the wall, tapping a furious beat on his thigh. “Mad-Eye.”
"And Hedwig,” Hermione adds. "I thought for a bit—" What does she want to say here? Should she admit it? "I thought maybe we had lost you too. That I had lost you."
"Hey.” Ron’s voice is so soft and tender, and Hermione lifts her head to see him walk a few steps closer until he’s almost standing over her. “I'm here."
Hermione’s mind segues into emotion after emotion without settling and all she can do is throw her arms around his neck and bury her face into his shoulder. He grunts from the pressure and she can feel his muscle stiffen to the point where she regrets the gesture, thinking she’s made him feel uncomfortable.
But as she tries to pull out of the embrace, he’s squeezing her tighter against his chest and his nose dips into the curls bunched at the curve of her neck. The palms of Ron’s hands find their way around her waist before one begins to travel the entire length of her back in a slow, tantalizing rhythm. His large hand is soothing, yet sensual, and she wonders if he can feel her shiver in his arms.
If he can, he doesn’t acknowledge it, nor do his movements stop. His fingertips brush against the waistband of her pyjama bottoms before quickly trailing upward again, and Hermione has to remind herself to breathe.
"Reckon I had the same thought about losing you today, too."
His deep, husky breath is hot against her ear and she stifles a moan. Hermione stands on her tiptoes as his hands dip lower again, and his fingers make contact with the small sliver of bare skin she reveals from her shirt riding up.
Her whole body ignites like Fiendfyre, and she can’t help but let her thoughts drift to the stark reality of how close they are—if she turns her head only a fraction, if he turns his head…
But they can’t. Not yet. Not while the Horcruxes are still out there, and not while Harry is counting on them.
Hermione doesn’t know how long they’ve been attached to one another, but their embrace has the potential to escalate into something more, something deeper, forcing her to pull back with all of the regret left in her heart; despite how much she wants to hold onto this moment of security with Ron, no matter how fleeting it may be.
"Oh.” Ron’s face reddens as he releases her. “Sorry."
“No need. It was lovely, Ron.”
"Uh, thanks.” He smiles at her, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “A hug from you twice in one day. It's—uh, well thanks."
She fights back a grin over his obvious nervousness, which she happens to find quite adorable. “I suppose I should try to get some sleep.”
Turning in the direction of Ginny’s bedroom, she only makes it a few steps before she hears his voice again.
"Hermione.” Ron’s grin is wider when she snaps her head his way. “Do you, er, want to take a walk tomorrow morning? Before everyone goes barmy over wedding preparations?"
Warmth swells through her chest, his sheer presence providing a tiny light of hope in the midst of impending darkness.
"That would be lovely."