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It’s so bloody cold. He hadn’t missed this part. He was spoiled rotten at Bill’s…sleeping in an actual bed—in a room with four walls and all. And the nights after he’d left there, he somehow always managed to sleep indoors. He’s still getting used to tent temperatures; even with Hermione’s warming charms, the cold is just relentless.
He wouldn’t trade where he is for the world, though. Not for the plushest bed or the warmest meal; nothing is worth more than lying within the same vicinity as Hermione. Even if it is from across a mangy, freezing tent.
Harrys on watch tonight, as he always is every third night, which leaves Ron to watch Hermione’s back subtly move up and down as she sleeps, until he eventually gives in to his own exhaustion. That’s how she started sleeping since he came back. She’d silently slip into her cot, turn away from him, and not move till morning. It’s so different from before. At Grimmauld Place and in their first few weeks in the tent, they always slept close to one another. No further than an arm's length distance—in case they had to talk without disturbing Harry or needed a comforting hand to hold in a restless night. Now she slept like a rock, never stirring or shifting like before. As if she’s stubbornly forcing herself—her body—not to need him, even in her sleep. Ron can’t even bring himself to be mad or upset by the assumption; he just…understands. She has every right to feel and act however she wants to around him; he fucked up. All he can do is wait. His feelings aren’t going to change, and he’s never going to give up; so whenever she’s ready, he’d be there waiting.
So he watches her sleep from his cot on the other side of the room. Lying on his side under his one blanket (he laid his second one on her bed before she came in from her shower), his eyes transfixed on the way her curls almost look to expand and contract with each breath she takes. Strange how much it was able to grow in the weeks he’d been gone. It would’ve amazed him if it didn’t instead make him so bloody sad. It was an unanticipated physical reminder of all the time he spent away from her. It had to be 2–maybe 3 inches worth of time. 3 inches of turmoil he put her through, maybe heartache.
Or maybe he’s thinking too highly of himself…maybe she wasn’t as miserable in his absence as he was in hers…
The thought feels untrue, though, and that brings an odd mixture of guilt and relief. Guilt in the knowledge that she was devastated by his leaving, but relief that his insecure thoughts didn’t manifest into genuine belief. The locket is really dead; if he’d been wearing it or even near it like before, that thought would’ve felt undoubtedly real—factual.
He doesn’t want to think too much more of the locket, though, consciously shooing it out of his mind. The bloody thing had stolen and controlled every thought he had for so long; too long for him to welcome it back voluntarily. Not when there are better things to focus on, like Hermione.
His eyes centered back on her.
Fuck—her hair is pretty. Could be because that’s the only physical part of her he can see from his view, or because it’s one of his favorite parts of her (too difficult to choose one feature over another), but it’s all his mind can concentrate on right now. One day, he’ll get her to let him braid it. She’ll probably be shocked by how good he is at it, after the initial shock of his asking to do it in the first place. He’s one of two brothers who succumbed to Ginny’s cries and pleas to do her hair. The first had been Charlie, and anything Charlie did, Ron knew to be cool—even if it was braiding their little sister’s hair. So when Charlie eventually moved out, Ron took over the brotherly duty. He’d be lying if he said he never thought of using his hidden talent on Hermione’s hair throughout school. There had been enough late Common Room hangouts to warrant the sarcastic offer, but he never had the nerve. One day, though, as soon as she’ll allow it. Until then, looking is enough—his heavy eyes settling on her brown curls.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, he hasn’t really been making the conscious choice to sleep these last few nights, mostly just succumbing to it. But the next thing he knows, he’s being nudged and pushed over on his bunk. He grumbles and moves subconsciously toward the tent wall along his cot. It isn’t till he feels a figure curl against him that his eyes shoot open. He must still be asleep, surely he’s dreaming, his first dream in weeks, and it’s the best one yet. Hermione has crawled into his cot without a word. Her body is so still and angelic, Ron can’t be convinced she’s real and not some intricate mirage. It’s finally the slow slide of her arms around his abdomen that proves to Ron that he’s awake—that this is real. His wildest fantasies have never managed to live up to the indescribable feeling of her hands gliding and gripping onto him. His body responds before his mind can even question what to do next. He wraps his arms securely around her, bringing her up and into his chest, and—by some unexplained miracle—she accepts, melting into his embrace.
He doesn’t dare say a word. Just takes in and appreciates this moment, this step, this gift. If this is what she is willing to offer, he will happily accept with literal open arms; they’ll talk when she wants to.
They both lay still in synchronized breaths; Hermione clutching at his shirt-clad shoulder blades, her head down and tucked under his chin. Ron’s only movement is in his hands as he runs them up and down her back; his cheek resting against her hair so he can reacquaint himself with his favorite smell. Fuck, it’s been so long since he just got to smell her. He could die like this, he’d be so happy to.
Suddenly, he feels her mumble into his chest, “I’m so unbelievably mad at you.”
Ron’s breath shudders, fuck it’s so amazing to hear her voice. Weeks without it were absolute torture, and the last few days of silence since his return have felt almost unbearable. But he knew she needed time, and he was willing to wait forever—any amount of time for her to speak to him again. Since he came back, he’d bring her tea before bed, and blankets during her cold night watches, with the belief that she’d say thanks when she was ready. He had made sure to say good morning and night, and let her know when he was going to step out to look for food, just in case she might’ve wanted to reply. Up until now, she hadn’t, and that was okay. So to finally be in the moment he’d been waiting for, and feel the warm breath of her words against his chest, it made his eyes involuntarily sting—God, she’s been worth every silent second. She could say the worst things possible to him in this moment, and he would grip onto every word, and hold her voice like the treasure it is.
“Me too,” he whispers after a moment, when he feels his voice won’t shake.
“You’re mad at me?!” Hermione grumbles into his shirt.
His chest heaves in what could almost be considered a laugh. Maybe a few months ago, he could have mustered one, but it feels too foreign right now. She just…almost sounded like herself. Annoyed—like he just said a dumb joke in Charms class only to bug her. It feels so familiar and warm—their bicker.
“No, no, never at you—“ he assures, rubbing his hands over her back, pausing to squeeze her sides and shoulder, “—at me. I’m so unbelievably mad at myself, too.”
She’s quiet for a moment before she hums in agreement; maybe it’s a small nod he feels against his shirt, or even better, maybe she’s snuggling further into his chest…Ron can’t bring himself to peek down and really check, afraid of breaking the spell they’re under. The only part of him that feels safe to move is his hands, she’s accepted those running along the length of her back and arms.
She doesn’t seem to want to talk more, and as much as Ron is craving the sound of her voice, he accepts that. Though he’s struggling to stop the incessant longing to speak to her, practically feeling his words clawing their way up his throat, threatening to burst right through his chest. To just tell her he’s sorry—at least one to a hundred more times—here while she’s in his arms, his words exhaled into her curls. Certainly, then it would feel like enough, not just for her forgiveness, but for his own as well. If he could simply say every little thing he has always wanted to tell her, place them delicately on the softness of her earlobe, or cheek, or lips; surely that would ease the erratic pounding of his heart. He imagines Hermione’s head bouncing from the sheer force of it. He’s positive she hears it. Maybe that’s why she presses her ear harder against him. The pressure is incredible, it grounds him.
He experiments with rubbing his cheek against her hair—subtly—nearly a nuzzle, till he pulls back enough for his lips to brush her forehead. His nose is buried in her hair, where the scent of eucalyptus and lavender clears his sinuses and inflates his lungs. She’s so fresh and wonderful and perfect. She smells nothing like the Burrow, but Merlin, does she smell like home. He wants to kiss her temple; he’s done it before to her smiling approval, but he’s not sure it’s appropriate. The last thing he wants is Hermione thinking he’s taking advantage of her kindness. So he just keeps his lips still, slightly parted but never puckered, so she can feel the heat of the words spilling their way out of his mouth.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but is it okay if I do?” He whispers against her skin.
Another pause—he almost thinks she may have fallen back to sleep before she murmurs, “Yeah…yeah, it’s okay.”
Her reply releases the tear that had been threatening to fall since she joined him. Blimey, she’s really talking to him again, and it makes him feel warmer than he’s been in months. He buries his face back into her hair, it feels so safe and wonderful in there—the perfect place to talk.
“I’m so sorry, Hermione. I know I’ve said it a hundred times, but I’ll say it forever. I’m so bloody sorry I left.”
He feels her start to tremble, and it sinks his heart, but he can’t stop. He just grips her tighter, unable to keep himself from kissing the crown of her head as he continues.
“And you don’t have to forgive me yet—fuck—I don’t know if I ever will. But I’m going to do everything—everything I can, to make this right. To make you feel safe with me again.”
Her voice responds quietly, a slight shake in the beginning, “I-I feel much safer now. With you back.”
Ron’s entire body begins to shake with pure relief and elation, “Fuck—that’s…that’s so bloody good to hear,” he pulls his face away from her hair, already missing its comfort but needing something else somehow more. “Shit—Mione, c-can I look at you, please?” His hand moves involuntarily to her cheek, brushing her hair away from her face as he restrains himself from tilting her gaze towards him. He wants it to be her choice.
A moment passes before Hermione pulls her face away from his damp shirt. She leans back against Ron’s pillow to give him a full view of herself. Her cheeks and nose are an adorable red, they match her full, rosy lips perfectly as if by design. Ron saves her eyes for last, knowing he’ll get lost in their glisten—and he’s right. “You’re so beautiful, Hermione,” he utters, cradling her cheek as he rubs his thumbs against her silky skin.
Hermione answers with a smile, fuck—it’s the first one he’s seen from her in…he can’t remember how long, maybe before he left? If that doesn’t manage to take all his breath away, her hand reaching up to run her fingers through his hair does.
“That time away must’ve really scrambled your brain. You run into an Imperius curse out there?”
Now the sound Ron releases is for sure a laugh—he’s positive. He’s missed the feeling. “I reckon the opposite—think I finally got my head on straight now.”
“Only took 17 years.”
“And a really dumb decision for me to get there…better late than never?”
She’s still smiling, miraculously, but Ron can’t help but notice it slightly falter. “Maybe,” she says.
She removes her hand from his hair. A second of loss passes through Ron until he feels her take his hand instead, pulling it from her face and holding it between their bodies. She looks down at their tangled fingers, rubbing her thumb against his.
She sighs, “I’m still mad—“
“—I know, and you have every right, I can’t tell you how s—” Hermione lifts her gaze back to his, silencing him.
“I’m mad,” she breathes, “but I’m so happy that you’re here. I-I’m more happy than mad now.”
Ron can’t hold back his reaction as he crushes her against his chest, hugging and squeezing her with fervor. “I’m so bloody happy I’m here too.” His forehead is against hers, something he realizes suddenly when he finally opens his eyes and finds himself looking directly into hers. He pulls back slightly, his excited reaction catching himself in surprise, “Shit—sorry, is this okay?” He asks, loosening his tight hold on her.
Hermione smiles, shifts down a little lower to rest her cheek back against his chest, and squeezes her arm around his middle. “Yes, it’s okay. You’re warm,” she sighs, closing her eyes.
“Too warm?” Ron asks, lifting the blanket.
“No, no. Perfectly warm.”
Ron smiles from ear to ear, tucking the blanket over Hermione’s shoulder and settling comfortably against his pillow. He’s never felt more at ease in his life. Not when he was floating weightless in the Burrow pond last summer, or curled in his dorm bed after finally finishing his Owls. Nothing had ever brought the calm and comfort of being in this very moment, in the middle of a war, in the middle of the forest, on a tiny, creaky cot with Hermione. He feels sleep approaching, so easily and sweetly, and he almost welcomes it, but can’t bring himself to leave her just yet. He wants to stay, surely a dream couldn’t compare to this.
“I missed you,” he hears her murmur.
He exhales with a wide smile, so happy to still be awake.
“Merlin, I missed you, too.”
“Harry’s a lousy cook.”
Ron snorts, “I’m no better.”
“True…” Hermione mutters, a smile in her voice, “The mushrooms you found yesterday were good, though.”
“Yeah? Harry didn’t eat them, so I thought—“
“He’s been eating less, preoccupied…”
“Makes sense, prepping to win a war and all,” Ron utters, rubbing her shoulder.
He feels Hermione momentarily freeze in his arms, and he realizes what he so casually said. They never spoke so blatantly about what was going on, what they were right in the center of. Always referring to it in such ways as “once this is all over” or “after we get through this.” They somehow managed to avoid saying what they were fighting within to one another. With Harry, they were soldiers, it made sense to talk about it bluntly, but something kept his conversations with Hermione from placing them in such a nightmare, fear, most likely.
“I-I’m sorry—“
“What was this from?” Hermione interrupts, tracing a half-healed scar on his inner forearm. “It’s new.”
Ron looks down to see Hermione still draped across his chest, her finger delicately circling his recent wound on his opposite arm. He shifts it to place his hand in hers, interlacing their fingers. “That was from about three weeks ago,” he utters, “was dodging some snatchers near this old barn I’d been camping out in, and they blew the walls out.” He feels Hermione’s fingers subtly tighten within his. “It was just some loose debris that got me,” he reassures, rubbing his thumb against the skin of her hand, “made it out fine.”
Hermione pauses, staring intently at the new mark on his already thoroughly scarred arm. “I’ll put some dittany on it tomorrow.”
“Nah, no need. It’s nearly healed,” he places her hand back against his chest and rubs against her wrist. “Should save it for later…for Harry and you,” he whispers, feeling the scratches and elevated scars now graced along her arms as well. He drags his fingers up the length of her arm and into her hair, rubbing the tips lightly against her scalp till he feels a noticeable bump beneath her curls. He automatically looks down at her in question, but Hermione answers first.
“Godric’s Hollow. Didn’t go as well as we hoped it would…” She lifts her head off his chest so she can look him in the eyes. Ron hasn’t moved his fingers from her hair, unable to bear releasing the locks loosely held between his knuckles. He looks at her with so much guilt and worry, it’s digging a hole through his sternum right where her hand still lies. “No concussion, just a bump,” she whispers, Ron’s thumb delicately running over said bump with featherlight pressure.
“I’m so sorry,” he utters, barely audible. He should’ve been there. Should’ve been his head housing a swollen bump, not hers. He wants to know exactly how it happened, hoping the answer would be better than the worst-case scenarios buzzing through his head. But before he can bring himself to ask, he just looks at her—really looks at her—and she’s there, and she’s breathing, and she’s okay, and she’s beautiful; and that’s what he chooses to hold onto instead. Thinking of what may have happened during every second of his absence would drive him into madness, and as much as he craves the knowledge, this moment with her is better to live in. He’s dwelling on the past less and less, with each moment spent with her in his arms making the present and future look so much more appealing.
He brings his unoccupied hand back up to her face, cradling her cheek with delicate ease. Touching her is still so natural and exhilarating, feeling equally easy and monumental all at once.
She twists her head slightly, her lips just brushing against the new wound along his inner forearm. “I’m sorry too,” she whispers before kissing his scar.
His reaction to this moment of intimacy surprises himself; he expects his heart to burst through his chest or stop altogether, for his hands to tremble uncontrollably, and his mouth to go dry. But instead, a large reflective grin spreads across his face from how natural the action looks for her, how comfortable they are falling so effortlessly into each other. “Look at that, you healed it completely,” he nudges towards the spot she kissed, “you really are the greatest witch of your age.”
“Brightest,” she corrects with a smile.
Ron just shrugs, “If anyone could be both, it’s you.”
Hermione scrunches her nose at him in an adorably teasing way before succumbing to a full-blown grin. Her eyes flash between his held gaze and his arm, “Well, no sense in leaving all these scratches unhealed,” her fingertips tracing up his arm.
Before he can get a word out, Hermione plants a soft kiss against his wrist, right where a small cut healed days before. She grabs hold of his hand against her cheek and twists his arm towards her mouth, finding a month-old scar on his forearm to place a kiss on. Ron’s smile is unwavering, just beaming at her in pure joy and comfort. It isn’t until she begins following the swirl of the brain tentacle scars he got two years prior that his heartbeat begins to quicken. Oh Merlin—he thought he may have finally mastered his body’s reactions to her, but the feeling of her lips against his inner elbow has ceased all control. She pulls her body up against his, nudging the loose sleeve up with her nose to kiss his bicep. All the blood in Ron’s body runs in two opposite directions: straight to his ears and directly below his trousers. Both areas now impossibly hot and pounding—fuck—there’s no way she can’t see or feel her effect on him.
She pulls her head up from his arm, facing him with clouded eyes. “Are you okay?” She asks with concern in her expression. Her question makes Ron realize he must’ve stopped smiling—too distracted by the feel of her body against his to do anything besides remember to breathe. “Yeah,” he exhales with a laugh, “yeah, never better. All healed up.”
Her concern drops, replaced with a small smile as she lifts her hand to his reddening face to delicately brush a finger against his cheek. “There’s a small one here…if you don’t mind,” she whispers.
Ron doesn’t remember a cut on his cheek, but he also doubts he could remember how to spell his own name at the moment. All his body can manage to do is nod positively, “Don’t mind one bit.”
She uses her arms to push into the bed beneath them to pull her upper half along Ron’s till her face is entirely level with his. She’s kissed his cheek before, a few times by now, but this time feels different. There’s a shared knowledge between them now. The first brush of her lips against his face in Fifth year sent him into a tailspin. What could she possibly mean by doing such an incredible and terrifying thing to him? But now he knows her intention, and she knows his. It’s why they talk so frequently about “getting through all this,” because they know the other will be waiting so impossibly patiently on the other side.
She leans towards him, and his hands instinctively find the alluring skin of her lower waist, where her shirt had unintentionally ridden up. The contact makes her breath hitch before she lands a soft, prolonged kiss on his hot, freckled cheek. The warmth of her lips could set fire to the tent, combusting directly from the generated heat on Ron’s face. He subtly leans further into her kiss, breathing in the heavenly scent of her neck. Eventually her lips part from him, but she keeps their faces close, dragging the tip of her nose against his skin to follow the constellations of freckles that lead from his cheek to his long nose. Ron's eyes are closed, allowing his body to entirely ascend into the unearthly realm of Hermione’s presence. To grip her flawless skin held against his rough hands, and feel the warmth of her breath against his open lips. He wants to close the gap so badly between them, and the way her hands move to dig into his hair tells him she wants the very same.
“Ron,” she breathes.
“Hermione,” he answers. His eyes still closed, taking her in through his other four senses.
“I-I know we’ve always said after…” Her breath shudders, and he can taste the minty heat of her words on his waiting tongue.
Ron wants to—bloody fuck—does he want to. To give in to the moment, and finally live within the fantasy he has dreamt about for years. However, it is the very nature of the moment that causes Ron to freeze; to remember why she’s in his bed and kissing his scars and forgiving him for what he had done. He opens his eyes, meeting Hermione’s gaze. She’s still in the moment but teetering, really asking for his input, knowing it will change everything. It’s a big moment for them, one they’ve been building together for years. Which is why it’s so important to Ron for it to be perfect.
“Is—is any part of you still mad, Hermione? Even the smallest bit?” his voice croaks.
Hermione’s eyes begin to glisten and fill, and Ron responds by softly cradling her face in his palms. She's fighting her words, he can see it in her expression—biting her lip and averting her eye contact; till finally she looks at him once again with a small nod and falling tears.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Ron whispers, bringing their foreheads together and kissing her cheek. “I am too, I’m still so mad at myself, Hermione,” he says against her skin. “And I want this to happen so badly…so bloody bad you don’t even know.” He pulls away to look at her, still holding her damp cheeks in his hands. “But n-not while we’re mad, ‘Mione, does that make sense? I’m so sorry, just for our first...I just want…I-I want—“
Hermione nods against his forehead, “I do too.” She pulls away from him, giving him a view of her wet eyes but calm expression. He knows she understands and knows she’s telling the truth when she says she wants the same. He feels it in the way her hand brushes his hair across his forehead, and how easily she sinks back into his embrace. He brings his arms back around her body, tickled by her breath gently blowing against his neck.
He rubs her back soothingly, as she drapes a leg over his. “I reckon you may be tired of us saying soon, huh?” He asks, closing his eyes in exhaustion.
She exhales a laugh, snuggling deeper into his embrace. “Soon is what I’m holding onto, Ron. It’s all we have out here.”
Ron smiles, kissing her curls and already feeling her steady breathing against his chest.
“Soon then,” he whispers, feeling more optimistic than he has months.
Sleep creeps in, dragging his consciousness further and further away from the woman in his arms. So he grips her tighter, taking in the pressure of her body and the smell of her hair, committing it to memory and willing his oncoming dream to be nothing more than a continuation of this night. It’s the absolute best he can hope for. The last thing he remembers is Hermione squeezing him back, telling him she may be hoping for the very same thing.