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"Ron!"
Ron started out of a doze as he heard Ginny scream. He jerked upright on the grass, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He saw her standing in the shallows of the river, her face pale and her eyes wide with fear.
"Ron!" she called again, her voice high and thin, and Ron was already up before he realised he'd moved, the water splashing against his legs as he rushed next to her.
"What? What's the matter? Did you get hurt?" he asked urgently as he grasped her arm, ready to pull her away from whatever had scared her.
Ginny turned her body towards him and pointed at the pebbled shore, her arm shaking slightly. "Can you—" she asked, her voice gone very small, and it was then that Ron noticed the reddish-brown snake. It was basking in the sun, its head tilted up as though enjoying itself.
Ron huffed out a shaky breath, stupidly relieved that Ginny hadn't got hurt. "Yeah," he said. "Wait a second."
He waded back to the shore and picked up the snake with practised ease. He carried it off, let it down in a nearby thicket where it couldn't be seen, and then went back to Ginny.
She was standing exactly where he'd left her, still pale and shivering in the sun. "Better?" Ron asked and touched her arm, rubbing his hand up and down as if she was cold.
Ginny made a face, looking embarrassed. "Sorry," she said. "It's stupid, right? It's not like it even looked like the—" She stopped and lowered her head, looking down at the translucent water. She clutched her arms around herself, impossibly small.
She'd seemed fine on the train, but ever since they'd got back home, she'd been having worse nightmares than when they'd been little and seeing snakes made her panic.
Ron hesitated and licked his lips, thinking of what to say. "It's not stupid. Hey," he added, nudging her a little. "You always deal with the spiders for me, yeah? D'you think it's stupid?"
They lived in the countryside, and those creepy hairy fuckers found their way inside all the time. Ron could deal with the ones that straggled into sinks because he could just flush them down, but the ones in the rooms made him quickly step out. The twins only jeered about it, and their mum was too busy to really pay attention. Ginny giggled about it too, but she always carried the spiders back outside for him.
Ginny frowned and darted a look up at him through her fringe, shaking her head. "No," she said, a fierce stubborn undercurrent in her voice as though she'd fight anyone who thought that. "It's not your fault. It's not like you can help it."
Ron's fingers twitched with the urge to brush her hair away from her eyes. He listened to that impulse without thought, inexpressibly awed, relieved, and thankful that she was alive and breathing and whole. He didn't think he'd ever forget those long, long hours after she'd been taken to the Chamber, the suffocating dread that she was dead. Ginny blinked, colour coming back to her cheeks.
"Yeah, it's the same thing, isn't it," Ron said. "Don't worry about it. I don't mind." He'd carry off all the snakes for the rest of his life if it meant Ginny was alive and okay.
Ginny looked up at him for a moment, then giggled. Her arms finally relaxed, and she grinned brightly. "Yeah. I guess that works. I'll deal with spiders, and you'll deal with snakes."
Ron glanced up at the sky. "Wanna head back? Mum must be ready with dinner by now, and I'm starving."
He swung his arm casually around her shoulders as she giggled again. "You're always starving, Ron."
"I'm a growing boy," Ron pointed out.
"Yeah. And you sound like an old man when you complain about joint pains."
"Hey, you try growing up inches at a time." He glanced down at her. "Oh, wait."
Ginny giggled and shoved him, then left her arm comfortably around Ron's waist. She kind of nudged her head against him and said, very quiet, "Thanks."
And Ron just — He pulled her in closer and ducked down to press his mouth to the top of her head. It wasn't quite a kiss because that was embarrassing, but she was alive. She was warm, and breathing, and giggling, and chattering his ear off, and Ron never wanted to feel as if she could be anything else.
"Don't mention it," he murmured, his voice rough.