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Third Year
It was ten at night in the Gryffindor Tower.
Hermes had been intending to work on his History essay next—they were always the easiest, so he did them last when he was the most tired and unwilling to tackle a huge bit of homework— but the words in the book meant nothing to him no matter how many times he tried to read them. He sighed and slumped further into the squishy cushioning of the arm chair, thumping the open book onto his face.
Just a few seconds of resting his eyes. Just a few seconds, and then he’d try to read about 17th century goblin relations. The essay was due in three days, and the fact that he’d let himself forget about it until now was inexcusable.
Those few seconds turned into a minute, then two minutes, and then he was too busy snoring to care about his essay on goblin relations.
The next thing he was aware of was a voice cutting through the bleary darkness: “This is the second time he’s done this, the git.”
Ron. That was Ron. What was Ron doing in his room?
He tried to figure out that mystery, but another voice was already speaking. Hattie, this time.
“I’m not surprised, he’s been tired all the time this year.”
“Bloody electives—all four of them!” The irritated note in her voice was very familiar. It softened a little. “Grab his books and stuff, alright?”
There were the shuffling sounds of things being picked up and moved. He should probably sit up and ask them what they were doing. But he was comfortable, and groggy, and the idea of opening his eyes seemed terribly burdensome. So he didn’t.
Which was why he was very startled when two arms started to dig under him, wrapping around his shoulders and knees.
“Wha—” he groaned, cracking open his eyes a bit to see a blurry reddish form.
Oh, right. Ron.
Then Ron hefted him up into her arms and his confusion only grew.
“What’re you—?” he tried.
“Sorry,” Ron said, her voice unusually low and gentle. “Just go back to sleep, alright?”
Hermes really wanted to know what was happening. He resolved to ask, but then he closed his eyes again and waited far too long to open them. Ron’s arms were really quite comfortable. He fell back asleep.
By the time he woke up again it was eight in the morning, and he’d entirely forgotten the whole thing. He was tucked into his bed, and there was a torn piece of parchment stuck to his forehead with extra-strength spellotape.
When he ripped it off with only a bit of wincing, he found written in Ron’s jagged scrawl the words STOP FALLING ASLEEP IN THE COMMON ROOM WHERE FRED AND GEORGE CAN FIND YOU!!! The final ‘you’ and the three exclamation marks were badly squished into the corner, like she had planned the writing poorly.
He stared blankly at it. Had he fallen asleep in the Common Room?
Sixth Year
“For Merlin’s sake, when the hell was the last time you ate?”
Hermes jerked his head up, nearly whacking it into the bookcase behind his head. Ron looked down at him with raised eyebrows, sports uniform folded over one arm, not even bothering to scowl at him. Quidditch practice still put her in too good a mood for her to scowl.
“Lunch,” he said shortly, still thinking about the properties of murtlap. “Did practice end early?”
“It didn’t, actually,” she said dryly, and held up her wand. “Tempus.”
He blinked at the bright 7:30 hanging in the air. He’d thought it was closer to five, if he had bothered to think of the time at all.
“If you’re wondering, Hattie’s down eating dinner like a normal person, so I’m stuck hauling your sorry arse to the Great Hall.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, already turning back to his parchment. “It’s the weekend, I’ll head down later—hey!”
Unceremoniously, Ron used a spell to sweep all of his parchment and quills into his book bag, which had been laying on the table half-open. Then she yanked the bag from the table and slung it on one shoulder.
“Guess we’re taking ‘haul your arse’ literally,” she said, and before Hermes had the time to process that statement, she was already leaning down into his personal space and grabbing him. She dragged him up out of his chair with insulting ease, getting a grip on his knees quickly. Then she hauled him up over her shoulder in a fireman's carry.
“Rhiannon!” he squawked.
Ron snorted. “Ooh, full-naming me, huh? Too bad you’re not my mum, mate.”
“This - is - a - goddamn - indignity!” he hissed, thumping weakly at her upper back with every word.
“Uh-huh,” she said, already walking through the bookshelves.
She patted him on the back like he was an unruly child, which was the worst part. Her stride didn’t even stutter a bit, and neither did her grip.
Quidditch practice, Hermes realized mulishly, had made her even stronger than before. And he had seen her wrestle one of the twins, who were both broader than her, if not taller anymore, to the ground after a stray prank several times throughout the years. She usually had to jab them in the stomach or inner knee to start, but then it was mostly strength.
He also realized that her carrying him like this meant he was basically stuck staring at her backside, and immediately tried to focus on the backs of her shoes instead. Only somewhat successfully.
“Just let me go,” he tried. “This is ridiculous!”
“And let you run right back into your dark little corner of the library to keep learning about Who-itz’s Scared Arithmancy matrices or whatever? Nah.”
“I’m not some stray cat that runs back outside every chance they get,” he complained.
Ron shifted him slightly higher up her shoulder and maneuvered the library door open.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she grunted, having to kick at the handle a couple times.
“Here’s an interesting idea—if you put me down, you could open that easily!”
She ignored him entirely as she strolled out into the blessedly empty hallway around the Library. It being around dinner time meant less people milling around. Thinking about other students made something occur to him, though.
“Question, what will happen if any first-years we’re supposed to be examples for are in the Hall?” he asked snappishly.
“Wellll,” went Ron, “Obviously I’ll go up to them and say—” she adopted a strange snotty voice that Hermes thought might be mocking both him and Percy at the same time, “— Now, wee little firsties, mere babes of the gentle spring that you are, don’t act like this fuckwit and put off eating during mealtimes or else you’ll forget that the seventh ingredient in the Forgetfulness potion is newt’s eyes and write down crushed nettles instead—”
“Good Christ, is that what I sound like to you?”
“Yes,” she blatantly lied. “Anyway, you’ll put down crushed nettles and get just an Acceptable instead of an Outstanding and you’ll be ruined, ruined, I say! And your 10-step plan to become the youngest Minister ever will be in complete tatters, and then where will you be? ”
“I despise you,” he informed her, and Ron laughed.
Then she whirled them around in a spin just to mess with him, leading Hermes to make a choked sound best rendered as “Urk!” that made her stop spinning quickly.
According to Hermes' vertigo, stopping was not that helpful, actually.
“Throw up on my clothes and you’re dead, Granger,” she said.
“It’d be your fault,” he said, and made a retching sound.
Ron blithely returned to walking. “Hermes, I have six siblings in a house with a lot of chores to be done. Your fake retching? Pitiful. Eat a rotten apple off the ground to avoid weeding the garden and then we’ll talk.”
Hermes, with what was not unfamiliar gratitude, thanked the stars he didn’t have siblings.
“Can we get back to you putting me down?”
“It was never on the table, but sure,” Ron said. “Here’s my statement: It’s not gonna happen, and I’m not taking any more questions, thank you, thank you. Consider it your punishment for losing track of time.”
“Feels like this counts as ‘cruel and unusual.’”
Ron shrugged, which felt very weird on Hermes’ end of things. “Eh, Hogwarts isn’t a stranger to ‘cruel and unusual.’ Remember the unicorn killer detention in first year?”
Hermes just groaned. The less he thought about that detention, the better. To this day he didn’t understand any of the staff’s thought process there. Assuming there was one.
It was then that she made it to the first set of stairs and Hermes started to feel like he might really retch. The sight of two younger Hufflepuffs passing them by and turning to each other to giggle at the picture he and Ron made didn’t help matters.
“Seriously,” he said. “We must be far enough from the library now.”
“Hm.” Ron stopped halfway down the steps. “Promise me you'll eat a full meal and I’ll let go of you. Carrying a squirmy bastard like you is getting annoying.”
“Yes, I promise!” Hermes hurried to say, both exasperated and relieved.
She stomped down the rest of the stairs before leaning forward and letting him drop feet-first. To his slight irritation, she didn’t look the least bit winded after hauling him around like a bag of flour. It was also sort of hot, which he refused to acknowledge.
“Thank God,” he sighed.
When he reached out to take his bag from her, she snatched it away and held it against her chest.
“Collateral,” she declared. “No re-negging.”
“What kind of person do you think I am?” he asked tiredly.
She grinned at him. “A stubborn twit, when you want to be.”
Hermes, deciding he’d truly had enough of this, turned around and walked towards the Great Hall without another word. Ron trailed after, still laughing at him a little.
“Seventh Year"
Voldemort’s followers had found them again.
Hermes’ side was burning with exhaustion as he dove out of the way of a spell, but there was nothing to be done about it. He stumbled back up to a standing position, throwing a curse at the man attacking him that thankfully threw him back and cast his gaze around desperately. There was Ron, slicing a cutting curse at two dark-robed figures, but Hattie, where was—
His inattention cost him. A yellow light flared from where the Death Eater had landed and Hermes jumped away with a bitten-back swear as his leg burned with whatever spell had hit him.
“Stupefy,” he snarled at the man, and the spell hit true.
He cast a few offensive spells in the direction of the other two, and they fell as well.
Once her trouble cleared away, Ron turned and rushed to him.
“Hattie,” she gasped, “Did you see—your leg!”
She quickened her run as Hermes finally looked down, finding a large, angry-looking burn running down the majority of his calf, the trouser fabric that had once covered it torn away.
“Don’t worry about that,” he tried to say, standing up fully to run with Ron, but the minute he put more pressure on that leg the burning feeling erupted and he almost fell to the ground.
“Don’t - worry - !” Ron said furiously, grabbing him under the armpits. “Bleeding - hold still!”
She hauled him up by the knees and upper back into a princess carry. It made the burn on his leg string terribly, but nothing like trying to stand on his own.
“Guys!” called out a sharp voice, and Hermes could have cried with relief.
Hattie sprinted to them, having seemingly shaken off her own attackers, and nearly collided into them in her hurry.
“We’re going now,” she snapped, and then they were apparating.
Another jump, than another, and finally they stopped in the Forest of Dean and Hattie let go of Ron, panting from the strain. Ron tightened her grip on him.
“Hattie, Hermes—” she said.
“I know,” Hattie cut off grimly. “We need to get the tent up first.”
They did, Ron leaning Hermes up against a tree and refusing to let him help. By that point he was grateful for it, because the burn was starting to weep. Then, the minute the tent was ready, Ron picked him up and set him into his bed while Hattie rummaged through the book bag for the right supplies.
First she tried a burn-soothing spell, but that did almost nothing. An aspect of the curse, perhaps.
“Essence of Dittany, then,” she said, pulling out the pot of it.
Hermes winced; they only had so much. But his arguments that they might need it more later were ignored and Hattie carefully cleaned his burn and applied a thin layer.
She started wrapping his leg to keep the Dittany in place and soaking into his skin, Ron hovering anxiously behind her with a white face.
“It’s not the worst thing that’s happened,” he said, trying for comfort. By the way Ron managed to go an even paler shade, it was the wrong thing to bring up.
Hattie finished checking the dressings and leaned back, looking exhausted. But there hadn’t been a day where she didn’t look exhausted for a long time now. He didn’t remember when the eye bags on her face had gotten so deep, but it seemed impossible that they might ever go away.
“It’s—I’ll make some soup,” Ron said, and turned away like she couldn’t bear to keep looking at them.
That was becoming more common by the day. Hermes hated seeing her like this, but didn’t know at all what to do about it, or even what was causing that stricken look in her eyes. It felt like he didn’t know what to do with himself, these days.
A terrible silence filled the tent. Ron stirred the small pot of the soup, unable to look at the other two, Hattie counted their stash of medicinal potions over and over again with hard eyes like the number might change in some way, and Hermes stared at the ceiling listlessly.
Quietly, Ron gave him the soup. He finished it in small sips.
Finally, with great effort, he managed to fall asleep. It was the best thing he could do for his injury outside of going to a healer.
If Hermes had been slightly more awake, he might have witnessed this later in the night:
Ron, pacing the small perimeter of the tent’s insides, wand at the ready. Her stopping and leaning down to check his dressings, and then his breath, as if afraid he would die if she took her eyes off him for a minute.
Her collapsing down next to him, watching his grayed face for any signs of pain.
Eventually, something seemed to move her. A desire to speak out her stress to something, even if it was the air above her unconscious friend rather than him.
A shutter racked her body.
“I just—I hate this,” she said venomously. “I hate running everywhere, I hate half-starving, I hate never knowing if we’re going to have to fight soon, I hate watching you and Hattie get hurt all the time because I’m too fucking stupid to help, I hate Dumbledore for making us do this, I hate the Ministry for never listening, I hate my—, I—, I—”
She choked on her words, and took a deep, shaky breath, balling her face up. But it was too late.
With hurried steps, she rushed to the other side of the tent and sat down to cry. There, she cried for a long while into the night, and woke up neither of her friends for comfort.
Come morning, she refused to say anything about her puffy eyes.
A Better Year
With a crack, Hermes apparated himself and Ron to the front door of the cottage, thoroughly relieved that it would be the last apparition of the night.
Tonight had been a party celebrating Dean Thomas’ acceptance into an apprenticeship to become a portrait painter, and with Seamus Finnigan and Lavender Brown involved, a lot of alcohol had been introduced into the plans. Hermes had offered to be the designated apparator, more because he hated drinking with strangers than any lack of desire to drink at all.
Ron, meanwhile, had gotten into a drinking competition with a Durmstrang alumnus Dean knew from the artistic circuits—a terrible idea on all accounts—and had gotten extremely sloshed.
It was a shame Hattie had to leave so early, she would have had a good laugh at Ron cursing the man out as he tried to make her drink water after the whole thing.
“I couldv’won,” she mumbled into his shoulder, still clinging to his neck even though they were home. “Ssstupid Durm’strung bloke. Bleedin’ sunk like a’boat. Spell ‘r somethin’.”
He patted the side of her waist where he had held her for the jump as sympathetically as he could. “I’m sure. We still have to go inside, remember?”
Letting out a groan like she was being walked to the gallows, Ron detached herself from him slightly, letting him make it to the door without trouble. It took him a moment of fumbling for his keys before he gave up and just used an unlocking charm.
What Hattie didn’t know wouldn’t lead to her yelling at him for poor safety. That was what the wards were for, anyway.
Hermes half-dragged her into the front hall and to the living room as she took stumbling steps that nearly had her tripping into the ground. Ron was the lucky sort who didn’t tend to hurl after side-apparating while drunk, but it did leave her a bit staggered half the time.
“Do you think you can make it up the stairs?” he asked, amused by the muttered “fuckin’ god no” he got in response. For reasons he couldn’t quite parse, she’d picked up a habit of swearing to God from him, but it only showed up while she was decently drunk.
“Alright,” he said, mostly to himself. “Alright, how to get you up there?”
A thought occurred to him, and he couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face. Technically, a floating charm to coast her up through the stairway would be pretty reasonable. Or apparating up to the bedroom now that he was properly in the wards.
He didn’t do any of these things.
“How about I repay you a favor,” he said mischievously, and then used a lightening charm on her, because he was not the sort of man to lie to himself about his own strength.
Ron had enough time to say “Wha—” before he bent down to get a hold on her legs as he shifted his arm around her waist a little higher. Then, still with some effort, he hauled her up into a princess carry.
It was still decidedly awkward. Ron was a very tall woman with both a long torso and legs, and she ended up almost folded in half in his hold. Hermes could tell moving the both of them around the stairs would be a pain.
But Ron let out a delighted laugh once she realized what was happening, and latched her hands around his neck so he had a better anchor, which made Hermes consider it a rousing success already.
“Cheat’r!” she giggled. “I nev’r had t’ use a charm.”
“Well, I’m not a Quidditch star like you,” he reminded her, and started towards the stairs.
He made it all the way up with minor troubles, but was stopped by the bedroom door happening to be closed until Ron, still giggly, let go of his neck with one of her arms and opened it for him. Then it was just a matter of navigating the clothes on the floor Ron constantly forgot to pick up until some absurd time of night.
He deposited her onto the bed. “Feeling alright?”
She nodded, grinning widely. “Grand!” she hiccuped.
“Good, I’m going to get you some water.” He patted the hand she had dropped to her stomach and stood up from the slight crouch he had taken to put her on the bed.
Then he remembered to cancel the lightening charm.
“L’ve you,” she slurred brightly as he walked back out of the bedroom.
A smile bloomed on his face, but apparently he took too long respond, because she half-howled, “Y’HAF T’ SAY IT BACK.”
Hermes laughed. “Fine! I love you too!”
He went and filled up two glasses of water in the kitchen and returned upstairs.
“Drink as much as you can,” he told her, pressing one glass into her hand as she sat up, and setting the other onto the bedside table.
She did, and was almost immediately knocked out the minute her head hit the pillows again, snoring wildly. Her hair was splayed out messily on the pillows, most of it out of the plait she had worn it in, and she was definitely going to drool with her head squished to the side like that.
He stood there for a minute, fond beyond words or action. Then he went to the study to read a bit before going to bed himself, not wanting to disturb her with the light.