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It’s the end of the world.
Hogwarts is wrecked all around them - deconstructed into bricks and glass and dust at their feet.
Dead bodies are scattered in the wreckage - bloody and rigid and surrounded by the sobs of their loved ones.
And yet, people are smiling - heavy with grief but light with relief.
Ron stands amongst them, chest heaving, scouring the crowd. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to sing. He wants so desperately to crawl out of his skin.
Finally, he spots a mop of frizzy brown hair.
Hermione is caked in ash and dirt, to the point she’s barely even recognizable. But Ron has spent all of his formative years studying her (whether consciously or not) and would know that particular slope of the shoulders, that particular point of the nose, that particular glint of the eyes anywhere.
He isn’t sure if he runs to her or if she runs to him - everything is a blur - but eventually they collide.
The press of her against his body soothes an ache in his chest he feared would never heal.
Despite how bone-weary they both are, they embrace strongly, holding each other up. Ron grips the back of Hermione’s shirt so tightly his knuckles ache. Hermione has a firm hand at the nape of his neck, lowering him down so their heads are side-by-side.
She’s muttering endless streams of “Ron”s and “Oh my God”s in between sobs. Ron can’t conjure words - he can only weep.
His mind is too scattered to hold on to thoughts. They fly through his head in bursts, in flickering images and passing feelings. Nostalgia, anguish, fear, happiness. He sees pieces of his entire life pass by - his first Hogwarts Christmas with Harry, seeing Hermione paralyzed by the Basilisk, his first successful Quidditch game, playing Wizard’s Chess in the Gryffindor common room, the desperate brush of lips outside of the Chamber of Secrets - and briefly wonders if he’s dying.
Then, Hermione moves. She puts her hands on each of Ron’s tear-stained cheeks and pushes him away, just enough for them to look at each other.
Hermione’s eyes are bloodshot beyond belief. Her face is puffy from crying. There’s dirt in her hair. She’s too thin from weeks of living on the run. Nothing is normal, nothing is right, but as she gazes at Ron, her cracked lips stretch into a smile.
At that moment, Ron knows he’s not dying. He’s luckily, painfully, outrageously, amazingly alive.
“I love you.” He whispers hoarsely. He doesn’t have it in him to elaborate, and hopes she knows all that’s wrapped up in those three words. That she’s his favourite person. That he’d be dead without her. That her mere existence enriches his life tenfold. That he wants to be by her side for as long as she’ll let him. That for her, he would fight this war again and again and again.
“I love you, too.” Hermione rasps, with fresh tears springing in her eyes and her smile widening. Ron knows she understands; knows she feels the same way he does; knows that of all the knowledge he has, this is the most sacred.
Slowly, the pair separate.
Ron grabs Hermione’s hand. She squeezes, he squeezes back.
Together they begin to trek through the battlefield, looking for their other loved ones.
The world has ended. The dust will take long to settle. There will be more tears, more sleepless nights, more pain. Endless hurdles remain, despite them clearing the tallest one. It’s bleak.
But Ron loves Hermione. Hermione loves Ron. They’re both alive. They’re both safe. The future is entirely theirs to sculpt.
And that’s more than enough for now.