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December, 1997
Rain pelted the windows of Shell Cottage’s cramped guest room, a wash of white noise rattling the panes. Ron sat on the bed, knees drawn up under his chin, staring unseeingly at the cold, grey expanse. He barely registered the muted click of his Deluminator, compulsively flicking it open and shut in his hand. With each click, a glowing orb from one of Fleur’s polished silver lamps vanished, then reappeared in a soft swoosh.
Each day for the past five weeks had been the same. Wake up before dawn, apparate to the Forest of Dean, shout into the trees until his voice was hoarse and eyes were wet, desperate pleas dying among the rustles and chirps of the forest.
At night, he’d sit despondent by the fire, only the crackle of the Wizarding Wireless keeping him tethered to sanity, to hope. He’d listen until the Potterwatch report gave way to static, confirming Hermione and Harry’s names weren’t listed among the dead.
Fleur would flit around the small cottage, casting concerned glances his way while whispering rapidly in French to Bill, who soothed her in hushed tones. Ron knew they were talking about him. He’d shown up on their doorstep, swathed in shame and self-loathing.
Their shock lasted all of a moment before they ushered him into the cottage, exchanging worried glances. They sat him down at their white-washed kitchen table and plied him with Fleur’s coq au vin, warm crusty bread, and a steaming cup of tea.
It was the first real meal he’d had in months, and he didn’t enjoy a single bite.
“Everyone ’as been worried sick, Ronald,” Fleur softly admonished, though with none of the accusation he would have received from his mum if he’d shown up at the Burrow. “Where ‘ave you been? What ‘ave you been doing? Why are you ‘ere alone without ‘Arry and ‘Ermione?” She rattled off questions in rapid succession while Bill watched him solemnly over his tumbler of firewhisky.
Now, weeks later, Bill and Fleur had become accustomed to Ron’s silence. Bill no longer met Ron at his bedroom door each morning, pressuring him to call the Order or bring him along for the search. Ron would shut him down with blunt refusal—a shaking finger thrust in Bill’s face at the suggestion he divulge the trio’s secrets. He’d betrayed Harry and Hermione once, perhaps unforgivably. He wouldn’t do it again by compromising their mission.
Instead, Ron would continue his search until he found them. Or they found him—if they even cared to see him again. He wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t.
The click , swoosh , click , swoosh of the Deluminator melted into the faint hum of Christmas music playing from the other room. Ron thought, distantly, that it would be soothing if not for the hopelessness pressing in on him.
Click
Were they safe?
Swoosh
Would they believe he’d searched for them from the very start, day after day after day?
Click
Would they forgive him?
Swoosh
Could he forgive himself?
Click
“Ron.”
A golden orb emerged from the Deluminator, floating gently in front of him. It momentarily bobbed in front of his face before slowly drifting to the window—through the window—where it stopped. Waiting. Beckoning.
All at once, Ron knew this light would guide him home.
Christmas, 2001
Hermione stepped out of the Floo, cheeks flushed from mulled wine and good humour, stomach sore from laughter and too much plum pudding. Christmas day at the Burrow was always a lively, cacophonous affair. The hum of Mrs. Weasley’s kitchen magic, the clang of dishes, Ginny shouting at George about the Spring season line-up, giggles from the yard as Ron spelled Teddy’s snowman to lob snowballs at Bill and Harry.
The scent of Arthur’s spiced cider followed Ron through the fireplace as he stepped into their flat behind her. The room was dim, Christmas lights reflecting a golden glow off frosty windows. The sounds of a Muggle clock on the mantel and Crookshanks's rumbling purr filled the otherwise quiet flat.
Hermione dropped a pile of precariously stacked presents under the tree and gave Crookshanks a soft scratch behind his ears. It earned her an ungrateful meow and lazy glare.
When she looked up, Ron was leaning against the mantel, gazing at her with a lopsided grin revealing a dimple on his right cheek.
“C’mere.”
Ron caught her by the wrist, pulling her to him. He wrapped his arms around her middle, hands warm on her back, thumb stroking absently along the dip of her spine. They sighed in unison, her breath warming the fabric of his newest Weasley knit. Her curls fluttered in the gust of his exhale.
This moment was, perhaps, a perfect moment after a perfect Christmas day. A stark contrast to just the day before. Christmas Eve with her parents, once jovial and bright, had turned into a quiet, stilted affair since their return from Australia. They’d forgiven her in words, but ever since she’d restored their memories, her mother’s tone was wary. Her father barely spoke to her at all.
It didn’t make sense how she could feel abandoned by parents she sent away, stripped of their memories. And yet she sat stiff and anxious at their table, longing for the easy conversation and trust she’d shared with them before the war. Hermione wanted to invite them to her flat or the Burrow without rejections dressed in thinly veiled excuses. They always hugged her goodbye and told her they loved her, but these visits never failed to leave her teary and solemn on the way home.
The night before she’d fallen asleep with salt dried on her cheeks as Ron curled around her, caressing her hair and soothing her with affirmations she only halfway believed.
“They love you, ‘Mi. They’ll come around. Just give them time.”
Despite the ever-present ache in her chest, she was grateful. She may have no longer felt at home with her parents, but she knew she had a family. Harry. The Weasleys. Ron.
“I have something for you.” Ron’s voice was muffled above her, face buried in the pile of curls atop her head where they still stood beside the fireplace.
“We agreed we’d gift equally this year! If you give me any more you’ll win.” Hermione peered up at him, scowling in false offence.
“You’ll just have to deal with losing for once. Besides, this gift doesn’t count. It’s special.”
Ron reached into his pocket, revealing the edge of a cobalt jewellery box. Hermione gasped.
“Ron, you didn’t—we said—”
“What? No! No, no,” Ron assured as he caught her misunderstanding. The tips of his ears turned pink. “I mean, one day. Yes. But, this is something else.” Ron shifted from one foot to the other and passed a hand through his hair. “A different promise.”
He opened the box. Inside lay a simple gold sphere looped on a delicate chain. Ron plucked it out of the box and let it dangle from his fingers, swaying between them. Now catching the light, Hermione saw it wasn’t a solid bauble at all. Rather, a dense fog swirled within the sphere, reflecting the amber glow of the fire and fairy lights. It was mesmerising.
“It’s beautiful, Ron.”
“Yeah. Um, it’s one of a kind.” He cleared his throat. “Attuned to your magic…and mine”
Hermione looked up sharply, a question in her eyes.
“It’s a beacon. If you ever need me, if you’re in danger or you’ve a bad day or you just can’t stand another moment away from this—” Ron waved his free hand up and down his body, eyes glinting with a mischief that was never far from the surface. Hermione snorted and waved for him to continue. “You hold it in your palm and say veni domum. It’ll sort of alert me, y’know? It will guide me straight to you.”
“Come home,” Hermione recited the charm’s translation, eyes prickling with tears.
“Yes. Come home. I know things have been hard for you with your parents. I mean it when I say I think they’ll just need time, they’ll come around, and I know they love you, ‘Mi. But—I wanted you to know that no matter what happens, you’ll never be alone. I won’t ever leave you.”
Ron’s eyes sought hers, voice dropping to whisper. “Not again. ”
In the weeks after his return during the war, Ron had apologised more times than Hermione could count. She’d forgiven him quickly, told him to put it behind him, but it took time for her to quiet the niggling voice warning her he’d disappear again. It wasn’t until nearly a year after the war that Ron divulged how the locket had tormented him in those long months on the run. Several months more before she truly believed he’d stay.
For years, he quietly showed her how he’d be there.
A soft rap on her door when she woke from a nightmare.
A scrap of parchment where he scrawled the wards to his shared flat with George, when they’d naively thought they wouldn’t be spending all their time in each other’s beds.
A quick Aguamenti into her glass at the pub when her cheeks flushed and limbs became languid with drink.
A jaw set in determination, despite shaking hands, as he boarded an Aeroplane for the first time, accompanying Hermione to bring her parents home from Australia. Ron had gripped Hermione’s hand until her knuckles cracked. But she just smiled, rested her head against his shoulder, and whispered soothing facts about aerodynamics.
Now he stood before her, thin gold chain dangling from his fingers and the sincerity of his promise written across his face.
“Help me put it on?” Hermione turned to let him drape the chain around her neck. The pendant was cool and light on her skin, resting against her breastbone. Ron clasped the chain and smoothed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, and turned her back to face him.
Bright blue eyes reflected the twinkling lights strewn across the tree. Hermione’s breath caught as she stepped into him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She relished in the feel of his hands on her waist, his breath on her cheek, and the press of his lips as Ron leaned in to kiss her.
He felt like home.