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Hermione knew it was coming. Ron Weasley wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety.
Hermione supposed she was partially to blame. She could have made things easier if she had just taken the lead and said, “I think we’re better off as friends.” She was worried, however, that if she hadn’t let him figure it all out on his own, it might have taken him years to figure out how he really felt.
She understood how he’d gotten confused. The love that the three of them shared was so deep, so meaningful, so all-encompassing—from the time they were children fighting a troll in a lavatory to sleeping in one tent, in one bed, curled up against each other like nursing kittens—it was nearly impossible for him to figure out where his love for Harry stopped, and his love for Hermione began.
Hermione was sitting on the edge of Ron’s bed at the Burrow. Ron was pacing. His room was so small that he could only take two and a half steps before turning around, but Hermione knew that patience, in this case, was essential.
“Ron?” she said, finally.
“Hermione!” He started as if he’d completely forgotten she was there. He sat down next to her. He placed a hand on her leg. Then pulled it away and ran it through his hair. He scratched the back of his scalp. He bounced his leg.
“There was something you wanted to tell me?” Hermione coaxed him as gently as possible.
“Right,” he said, steeling himself. “Hermione. I care about you very much. I— these past few weeks, they’ve been very good. Very great. I mean I liked them. I like you. You’re my best friend, did you know that? Did I say I care about you very much?”
“Yes, Ronald.” Hermione patted his knee. “I care about you very much as well. And,” she added slowly, “I really just want you to be happy, do you understand?”
He rubbed his hand over his face. “Promise me you’ll forgive me?”
“Yes, Ron, I’ll forgive you.”
“I think—erm—I’m so sorry, Hermione—I just—”
She was starting to get bored with his dithering. Out with it, already.
“Ithinki’minlovewithHarry!” he said at once. Then he folded himself in half, his head between his knees.
Hermione rubbed his back. “Is that all?”
He sat back up, his face flushed a vibrant red. “Is that all? ” His voice had gone all squeaky. “Aren’t you livid!? Don’t you hate me?”
Hermione’s heart swelled with fondness. She suddenly had a long, clear view of the future—of Harry and Ron holding hands, holding one another, of the home and hearth they would build, of their wedding, of the children they’d welcome into their home. And of herself, standing by her boys every step of the way, but with her own life and loves and adventures awaiting her, Harry and Ron always there to catch her if she fell.
“Hate you? No, of course not,” she said, tucking a too-long tuft of ginger hair behind his ear. “You’re a complete idiot, but I love you anyway.”