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It was strange to feel so elated when just a week before, he’d felt as though his world was going to end. The hope that buoyed up in his chest felt foreign, taking residence beside the constant companion of dread. He supposed he could blame the cocktail of feelings on the red wine.
A deep maroon, distorted reflection of himself gazed back at him from the goblet in his hands, which Dean had already topped off twice for him. Hair too long, getting too close to Bill’s signature look for his comfort. His face was thinner, too; he tried to avoid looking at himself in the mirror for too long. The tent hadn’t had any mirrors, for which he’d been grateful. The one solace the tent had to offer.
“I really should go,” Lupin’s voice floated in from the sitting room.
“One more toast, then!” Bill said back, his voice loud and buoyant. Lupin protested once more, but was met with jeers. “To Teddy!” Bill cried. He put an arm around Ron, pulling him away from the table of food, and raising his glass high.
The room echoed with cries of the newborn’s name, and then Lupin finally slipped out the door and into the night.
The party did not cease. They hadn’t had a reason to party, not since Bill and Fleur’s wedding, which was cut far too short. Ron extracted himself from his eldest brother’s arms, and then glanced around the room. Looking, as always, for her.
His eyes first met Harry’s, who stood against the wall, cornered by Luna who chattered away about something that involved a lot of hand waving. The corner of Harry’s lips twitched upward when he met Ron’s gaze, and Ron snorted. He was glad that despite it all, Luna was still…well, Luna.
Dean weaved throughout the room, topping off everyone’s drink, and it reminded Ron so much of late nights in the dormitory and Dean and Seamus’s smuggled bottles of firewhiskey. The memory stung. Something so normal, in circumstances far from it.
Fleur passed by Ron to take her spot on his brother’s arm, hanging off of him with an empty wineglass in one hand. “Eat, please!” she nodded at the full plate in Ron’s hands. “Eet ez too much food!”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he smiled, even though he hadn’t felt hungry in days. The memories of Malfoy Manor, of Hermione’s screams, plagued his every thought. Hit him with intermittent waves of nausea.
Hermione. He spotted her, finally. Sitting on one of the bottom steps in the stairwell, leaning against the wall, half-drunken goblet of wine in her hand. Looking at him. He met her gaze and smiled. She smiled back, and her cheeks tinged pink. He felt his stomach flip, and without really making the conscious decision to, he found himself walking towards her.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she said when he finally reached her. He slid down next to her and raised his eyebrows. She wobbled a bit beside him, then leaned in towards him. Her hair tickled his nose.
“How much have you had to drink?” he asked, steadying her.
“Just one,” she said back, defiantly. “And a half,” she added, holding up the goblet.
“With all the potions Fleur has you on, that’s gotta feel more like three drinks,” he commented.
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “I feel fine.” A small burp escaped her mouth, and then she giggled. "Mostly fine."
“Fred told me that once, Madam Pomfrey gave him some healing potion for a bludger to the head. The next night he had a single shot of firewhiskey and could barely walk. Reckon some of those healing potions amplify alcohol, or something.”
“Fred drank firewhiskey in the dorms?”
“Hermione. Literally everyone drank firewhiskey in the dorms.”
“Hmph.” She took another long gulp from her goblet, and then handed it, nearly empty, to Ron. Their fingers brushed as he took it from her. He pulled out his wand and silently sent both his and her goblet back towards the kitchen.
“You’re so good at that,” she said aloud. Almost dreamily, he thought, though he didn't dare hope.
“Hmm?”
She waved a hand in the direction of the goblets, which had both just landed upon the tabletop. “Nonverbal spells. I always have to concentrate really hard to get them to work without saying the incantation. You’re good at it. Better than me and Harry.”
He felt his cheeks turn red. She was looking up at him; he could feel the warmth of her gaze. He stared down at his hands, suddenly interested in playing with a frayed end of his sleeve.
“Oh. Yeah. Erm, thanks. Probably just ‘cause I grew up with wizards, you know,” he mumbled.
She shook her head. Her curls ghosted his arm. “You’re better at it than your brothers.”
“Doubt that,” he said.
She prodded him in the arm with a finger. “Don’t argue with me. Just take the compliment.”
Compliments had always made him feel sick; yet he craved them more than he craved almost anything else.
Instead of coming up with a response, he snaked an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. She leaned into him with all her weight (which wasn’t much, after months in that bloody tent). The feeling of her body pressed against his side mixed with the wine in his veins chipped away at his inhibitions.
He glanced out at their small party: Fleur and Bill were now sitting on the couch, leaning into one another. Dean and Luna were talking in the kitchen, and Harry had already disappeared outside. Ron knew he was probably at Dobby’s grave; he’d been spending a lot of time there. Ron joined him, sometimes. Sat in silence beside his friend. The world was so heavy, on all their shoulders, but especially on Harry’s. He wished he could help alleviate it, somehow. Wished they could just be normal kids.
Though nothing was ever normal, being friends with Harry Potter.
“Teddy is cute,” Hermione commented, glancing down at her hands in which she held one of the many photos Lupin had handed out. A tiny baby with changing hair smiled up into the camera. Blue, purple, pink.
The picture of the smiling kid felt wrong, almost. Something so new, untouched, in such a messed up world. “I can’t imagine having a kid in all this,” Ron said, looking away from the picture. “I mean, I’m already worried to death about you and Harry all the time. And my family. Can’t imagine worrying about a kid.”
“Are you likening Harry and me to babies?” Hermione smirked. “If anything, you and Harry are the babies.”
Ron laughed. She was funny, funnier than usual, when she was drunk. “You know what I mean.” He tried not to think about the events of the last week. Malfoy Manor. Just how fucking worried he’d been for her. How he’d almost lost her. The dread in his gut swirled around. The plate of food he’d brought over still sat on the step, untouched by either of them.
“I do,” she said, quietly. They sat silently for a moment, bodies pressed against one another. “You wouldn’t have to worry about it anyway,” she added eventually, jolting him out of his thoughts.
“What?”
“A kid,” she said, like that explained everything. “Your kid would be pureblood. They’d be fine.”
Sirens blared in his head, bright red and loud. Talking about kids and futures with Hermione was off-limits, especially when inebriated. Unfortunately, his mouth was moving faster than his brain, and he spoke without really thinking. “Not if the Mum’s a muggleborn.” The words lingered in the air, and he seriously considered banging his head against the wall to get himself to shut up before he said something even more compromising. “Or a half-blood,” he added quickly.
“Hmm.” He glanced over at her and saw that her cheeks were tinged pink, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She looked at him and then quickly looked away, back at the photo of Teddy. “Well,” she continued, “I think it’s kind of romantic.”
“Huh?”
“Lupin and Tonks. Having a baby. Your brother and Fleur, too, having a wedding in the midst of a war.” She paused and grimaced at herself. “Merlin, that sounds so…sappy.”
“Nah. I get what you mean. My parents had all of us during a war. We’re all war babies.”
Hermione frowned. “Children of war all grown up. Fighting another war.”
He thought of the future his parents had fought for, hoped for. That his mother’s brothers, Harry’s parents, and so many others had died for. Only to have the next generation relive it all.
“Hopefully there aren’t any more wars for a while,” he said, after a moment. “Would be a right shame to go through all this shite just for our kids to fight another one.” He felt Hermione tense against him, so he replayed his words in his head, and once again wished he could charm his mouth shut. “Er, I mean, not our kids, but, erm, like Teddy, and if Bill and Fleur ever - ”
She put her hand on his arm and squeezed. It was the warmest he’d felt since last summer. “I know what you mean.”
They sat in silence for a while, leaning against one another, Hermione not removing her hand from his arm. In the time since arriving at Shell Cottage, the two of them had seamlessly slipped back into the casual intimacy they’d shared prior to Ron leaving. Shoulder touches and brushing knees and hand holding when nobody was watching. Though it was more than before, charged with something akin to desperation. As if they were making up for the lost time, for the weeks of his absence and the subsequent weeks of her iciness. Yet both were still afraid to say anything, to go any further. Still dancing around one another, the way they always had. Ron was afraid that if he broached the subject of them, all his confessions would come tumbling out, unstoppable. He was just grateful she was alive after what Bellatrix did to her (the memory of which ached in his bones, the feeling of his knuckles against wood, his voice hoarse, her screams in his ear). He didn’t want to overwhelm her.
Eventually, the party (if one could even call such a small, bedraggled group a party) dwindled. Harry reappeared inside and snagged his toothbrush from Hermione’s beaded bag. Dean collapsed on the coach, struggling to stay awake as Luna hummed softly beside him, a book in her hands.
“Budge up,” Bill said to Ron, nudging him with his foot. Bill’s eyes were tired, his wine-drunk grin gone and replaced with a yawn. He had his hand wrapped around Fleur’s, who yawned in unison. “My wife and I are tired, and you’re blocking the way up.”
Ron and Hermione both stood, and Hermione wobbled a bit on her feet, clutching the rail on the staircase. Ron wasn’t sure if it was because of the pain, or the alcohol, or both. Bill and Fleur passed them to go up to their bedroom, and when Ron glanced back at Hermione, she was squeezing her eyes shut and pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers.
“Headache,” she said, sensing his worry. “I suppose you were right about the potions and wine not mixing well.” She grimaced and rubbed her temples.
“C’mon,” he said, taking her elbow and guiding her up the stairs, towards the small room Hermione had been sleeping in (and Ron, too, for those first nights of her fitful nightmares, beside her bed in a wooden rocking chair). He summoned a bottle from the bathroom, a small stoppered vial full of Pepper-Up Potion. “Here,” he said, taking a swig before offering it to her. “It’ll help your head. And it’ll sober you up.”
“Let me guess,” she said, in between sips, “Another trick Fred and George taught you?”
“Charlie, actually. Used to get brutal hangovers.”
“Lovely.”
Her shoulders relaxed almost immediately and her brow unfurrowed, slightly (it was always a little furrowed, Ron noted fondly). He took the bottle from her and their fingers brushed again, a moment too long, or perhaps not long enough.
He swallowed hard. “Well, if you need anything - ”
“Stay,” she said quickly. Even in the dim light he could see her cheeks redden. If it wasn’t for those telltale cheeks, he would have doubted she said anything at all. Assumed it was something his mind made up. “If you want,” she added, breaking eye contact.
“Of course I want,” he said before she even finished her sentence. He reached for the chair, but she grabbed his arm instead. He frowned at her, and could practically see the gears in her mind turning. She finally met his eyes again, the expression reminiscent of the one she wore while tackling a difficult assignment in the library. She studied him like he was something to solve, and Merlin, he liked it.
“Not on the chair,” she spoke. The shakiness in her voice betrayed her determined expression.
He didn’t dare assume. “Er, yeah, I can get my sleeping bag, from downstairs, I’ll be right back.”
She didn’t release him. Just stared at him for a moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth (the sight of which was admittedly driving him a bit crazy).
“Oh, don’t be daft,” she said finally, and pulled him towards the bed.
It was a dream. It had to be, he thought, as he watched her peel back the covers and crawl into the twin bed, scooting herself up against the wall to leave room for him. A dream. Definitely. Or maybe he had drunk too much wine. And was he really sure that it was Pepper-Up potion in that bottle, or had he somehow gotten his hands on liquid luck?
He hesitated, and then she let out a little huff of impatience, and he crawled into the bed beside her faster than he’d ever done anything. He laid on his back. She was on her side still, her back to the wall, a hair’s length of space between them. He could feel her breath on his neck, her eyes watching him. Her proximity made his body feel like it was going to explode, though he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare try and get any closer.
Her hair tickled his nose. She scooted herself closer, closer to him, her head finding a home in the space between his neck and shoulder. The feeling of her body flush against his side was doing things to him he’d only ever dreamt about.
And then, he felt her lips press softly against his neck, and he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. Maybe Bill’s bottle of wine had been poisoned, and they were all lying dead in the kitchen, and he had been transported to whatever sort of magical wizard afterlife awaited him. That was the only logical explanation.
“Hermione.” He said her name like a warning. He couldn’t find the words to convey much else. To warn her that if she kissed him, he may not be able to stop. Ever. That he’d want to kiss her every day for the rest of her life, and if she didn’t feel that way too, he might die. He searched for the words for his feelings, but was lost. “You’re drunk,” was all he managed.
“I’m not anymore,” she whispered into his neck. “The Pepper-Up, remember?” The air from her voice made the hair on his neck stand up.
“We… if you… I…” his words were jumbled. He tried to grab some out of the air, string them together into something coherent. He failed.
“If I what?” she asked. She put a hand on his cheek, turned his face so that they were staring at one another, nose-to-nose. In her eyes, he saw his own emotions reflected back – fear and desperation and big, overwhelming feelings. Her gaze held something more, though, something that both scared and excited him: determination.
Her lips were so close to his. Almost brushing them. “Wait,” he said. He swallowed hard. His voice was quiet, hoarse. “If you…if we…I dunno if I’ll be able to stop.” Somehow, she had sapped his ability to form sentences. This close to him, she stole all the thoughts from his brain. All the worries. All the insecurities. All that remained was her, with her bushy brown hair, her brown eyes, her lips that looked so soft.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to, either,” she admitted. She didn’t move away from him.
They stayed there for a moment, suspended in time.
And then, they were kissing. Neither was sure who closed the gap first, but their lips met hesitantly in the middle. Soft, slow, barely brushing against one another. She tasted like wine, but sweeter.
He pulled away for a moment and searched her eyes. “You’re it for me, you know,” he said. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, really, but the words just tumbled out.
He didn’t have a chance to read her expression, because she pressed her lips against his again, this time with much more force. Her chest was flush against his, her hand holding his face in place. A groan escaped him as she opened her lips, snaked her tongue between his teeth.
“You’re it for me too,” she said. Her eyes were watery.
“Really?”
“Yes, Ron. Really.”
He kissed her, again, and again, and then asked, “Why haven’t we done this sooner?” A smile played on her lips and she raised her eyebrows, silently saying, you tell me.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m an idiot. You’re stubborn. There’s a bloody war going on.”
“We’re both stubborn,” she corrected, snaking a hand up to the back of his neck. He placed his hand on her waist, his fingertips grazing the exposed skin between her shirt and pants. She shivered at the touch, and he put his lips against her neck, returning her feather-light kisses from earlier.
“I wish we’d gotten to be…normal teenagers,” she said. Her voice was breathy, stilted. He decided it was his new favorite sound.
“How so?” he asked, his lips not leaving her neck.
“If there was no war. Maybe, I don’t know, we could have spent evenings drinking firewhiskey in the dorms and…” She trailed off as his mouth moved lower, to her collarbone. A soft gasp escaped her. He grinned against her skin, then pulled away to look her in the eyes.
“Even under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t have gotten drunk on firewhiskey in the dorms, Miss Prefect.”
“You’re a prefect too, prat.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a fun prefect.”
“It’s a very important job, you know, and I think if you just - ” she started, and he pressed his lips to hers again before they could start properly bickering. She melted against him in the darkness, her retort lost to the night.
“Do you think… after the war…” she panted, between kisses (neither of them had ever been very good at being silent, especially together).
“After the war what?”
“We could…be together?” she pulled away and searched his face, her own cheeks tomato-red from embarrassment.
“Erm, is that not what we’re doing right now?”
“No, I mean…properly. Boyfriend and girlfriend, I suppose.” She grimaced as the words escaped her mouth. “It just sounds so…silly.”
He grinned and ran a hand up her arm, over gooseflesh. “Not silly. Reckon it’s a great idea. Hermione Granger’s Boyfriend has a nice ring to it. I could even make a badge, to go with my prefect one.”
She smiled, and a tear raced down her cheek. He caught it with the pad of his thumb. “After the war, I’ll ask you out properly,” he said. His eyes were watery now, too, but he no longer cared about crying in front of Hermione. “We’ll be normal teenagers and go on dates and we can even drink firewhiskey in the dorms, if you want.”
She leaned back and laughed (another favorite sound of his). “Promise?”
“Whatever you want. I promise.”
“Okay,” she said, and pressed her lips against his again. “After the war.”