Work Text:
"Winter Hearts"
5TH YEAR - GRIMMAULD PLACE
Ron Weasley, hunched in the hollow of the old, unpleasantly rough sofa in the Grimmauld Place drawing-room, lifted the mug of steaming, overly strong tea to his lips. The drawing-room, usually shrouded in a dark, oppressive gloom, had been adorned with a few hanging paper garlands, but an icy, tense quiet still prevailed. The silence, meant to be a reprieve after weeks of terror, felt too fragile. Ron struggled to swallow the hot sips of his drink, his mind fixated on one thing.
His father. The great snake had attacked him at the Ministry of Magic, nearly taking his life. Ron remembered the physical pain the news of the attack had caused him, that burning, helpless feeling in St Mungo's Hospital that his father, the pillar of their world and family, could simply vanish. Fortunately, after a few days, he was thankfully almost back to full strength, and the entire Weasley family, along with Harry and Sirius, had sought refuge in the gloomy Black house to spend Christmas there, away from the Ministry's prying eyes.
In the dim light, Ron suddenly recalled the moment Hermione had joined them. She should have been far away now, on the slopes of the Alps, enjoying her first truly Muggle Christmas with her parents in two years, away from magical drama. Yet, she had appeared almost immediately after the term ended, trunk in hand and an expression as intense as during exams.
When he saw her in the doorway, for a fraction of a second, a stupid, selfish hope ignited in his heart. A fleeting thought that she had cancelled her trip, that she had abandoned the promise of snow and parents to be with him. To comfort him, to assure him that everything would be alright, just as he had comforted her, and that her worry was focused specifically on him. He thought that perhaps for the first time in his life, he was the centre of concern, that his quiet fear had been noticed.
But that deceptive spark was extinguished almost immediately, replaced by cold logic and a painful awareness of his own place in their trio. Of course, she was here. Not for him, Ron Weasley, whose dad was recovering. She was here for Harry. It was Harry who had seen it all. Harry, who had experienced the vision, who had been the snake of You-Know-Who, and now had to bear the unimaginable burden of guilt and the fear that Voldemort could reach his father through his mind!
Ron irritably set his mug down. What an idiot he was to be carried away by such a base emotion? It was disgusting. How could he expect her attention to focus on his secondary fear when his best friend was going through the hell of guilt? Harry needed her comforting pragmatism and unwavering loyalty much more. Ron had to immediately crush the pang of jealousy inside him. His job was to support Harry, not compete with him for attention, especially since Harry was the one who had actually experienced the trauma of the connection with the Dark Lord.
He decided he would talk to Harry later, even though he had already done it a few times. His problems were nothing compared to Harry's. He would be a good friend.
He was already sinking back into his thoughts when he was surprised to hear soft footsteps and the creak of floorboards, signaling that someone was coming down the stairs. He thought that everyone in the house, exhausted by the emotions of the past few days and the holiday preparations, was already asleep. The steps drew closer, and the figure stopped and sat down on the old, upholstered armchair opposite him.
Seeing Hermione in a charming flannel pyjama set, Ron felt his mind involuntarily shedding the weight of negative emotions. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and she had thick wool socks with little Christmas trees on her feet. He caught the characteristic scent of the perfume he had given her this morning with his hard-earned money. Ron smiled to himself, and his heart, which had been clenched just moments ago, gently fluttered.
"Hi," Hermione greeted him in a soft, barely audible whisper, as if afraid of waking the house.
"Hi," Ron replied, trying to keep his voice neutral.
"Why aren't you asleep?" she asked.
Ron, of course, couldn't admit he couldn't sleep because he was thinking about her. He quickly invented an excuse: "I don't know. I'm not tired."
Hermione frowned, looking at him. "You look exhausted." Her gaze swept over his face, and her expression changed from concerned to resolute. "Actually... you are sad!" she stated with typical certainty.
"What?" Ron feigned surprise, though he felt a pang inside. Was he really that readable? "I just smiled at you a minute ago!"
"Well, now! Now your eyes look like you haven't slept in a week!"
"I'm not sad!" he protested, feeling a growing irritation. He hated her perceptiveness, especially when she was right.
"You are!" she insisted.
"I'm tired."
"Then go to bed!" Her voice was a mix of command and plea.
"No," Ron mumbled, feeling totally cornered and not wanting to argue further. He looked away, crossed his arms over his chest, and slumped into the sofa like a small, stubborn child.
Hermione watched him in silence for a long time. He waited for her next reprimand, but her voice, when she finally spoke, was unexpectedly quiet and gentle.
"You're worried about your dad, aren't you?"
Hermione felt terribly guilty. Since arriving at Grimmauld Place, several days had passed between decorating Sirius's house, the chaos of visiting Mr. Weasley at St Mungo's, and, most importantly, looking after the silent and isolated Harry with Ron's help. There had been no time to sit down and talk to Ron about him and his feelings, as both of them had been preoccupied with other things.
When Ron remained silent for a good while, Hermione thought he wouldn't answer, that he would push her away with another joke or argument. But finally, she heard a quiet, stifled word that broke her heart.
"Yes," he said, barely moving his lips.
Hermione felt even worse, chastised by her own neglect. Her thoughts briefly drifted, tangling with the gift from earlier today. She was pleasantly surprised and indescribably happy when she received the perfume from Ron. In her head, which always sought logical explanations, a completely illogical hope was born—that perhaps this was a sign he saw her as a girl, not just an annoying bookworm. Maybe... maybe he had feelings for her? She immediately pushed away these selfish thoughts that Ron might be in love with her. It was inappropriate. Right now, she needed to comfort her best, handsome, and currently vulnerable friend.
"Oh, Ron! I'm so sorry! I should have talked to you much sooner!"
"It's fine," he mumbled, but his voice sounded hollow.
"It's not fine." With slightly trembling knees, she got up from the armchair. Her nerves made her feel awkward, but instinct told her that words weren't enough. She walked over and sat down next to him on the sofa. Ron seemed surprised by her action for a moment. He didn't have time to protest or move away when she firmly wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest.
Ron froze. He felt the rush of her warmth, the scent of the perfume mixed with her natural smell, which was now much more intense. The hug was so natural, so warm and perfect, that for a moment he forgot his fear and sorrow.
For a brief second, Hermione thought: I wish I could do this all the time.
"It's all right now, Ron," she whispered. "Your dad is recovering. We got through this."
It was right then, in the safe embrace, that the barrier broke. Ron felt an uncontrollable tear run down his cheek, and a painful, choking sob caught in his throat. He quickly wiped the tear away with the back of his hand, hoping Hermione hadn't noticed.
But she knew. Instead of asking, she simply pressed him closer. Ron finally gave in and hugged her tightly, burying his nose in her loose, fragrant hair. Hermione whispered words of comfort and encouragement to him, in the calm, matter-of-fact tone that always soothed his nerves.
And so they fell asleep, entwined, Hermione lying on him, on the old sofa in the Grimmauld Place drawing-room. Unaware of the world, with the first rays of sunlight entering the room, they woke up in the morning, embarrassed, flushed, and unable to look each other in the eye, but with a feeling that their bond had become irrevocably and beautifully stronger.
HORCRUXES HUNT
Ron sat huddled on the grey, thick sand, just a few dozen yards from Bill and Fleur's home—Shell Cottage. The ocean, instead of cradling and soothing, roared angrily. An unpleasantly chilly, damp wind struck his face, stinging his exposed skin. He didn't care. The cold was nothing compared to the icy, paralyzing sense of guilt that had nested within him. He thought only of Hermione and Harry, and how he had colossally messed up.
His thoughts, invariably, returned to her. It was only when he Apparated away from their tent, in that unnatural, sickly fog of rage spurred by the venomous locket, that her helpless, sad gaze and her calls to stop him truly registered. Yet he had still left them alone when the world was falling apart.
That cursed Horcrux locket had poisoned his mind, amplifying his worst fears and jealousy. In a fury, he grabbed a handful of wet sand, feeling its roughness, and hurled it towards the foaming waves. He was a coward.
He didn't know if they would ever forgive him. Harry, maybe. But Ron knew he would never forgive himself. He wouldn't rest until he found them. For a couple of aching, freezing weeks, he had Apparated all over Great Britain, desperately trying to locate them. Everywhere was empty. He was a ghost, a shadow of himself, seeking a redemption he didn't deserve.
Deep in his heart, he already harboured a grim plan. Once he found them, he would help them defeat the Dark Lord. He would be the shield, the sword, he would be whatever it took to atone for his betrayal. And then, he would leave. He saw no future for himself, he didn't deserve one. Why should he live when he had failed the people he loved most?
Christmas had just passed. Christmas Day, which he should have spent with his family. Bill, his brother, had urged him to go with him and Fleur to the rest of the Weasleys. Ron refused, unable to show his face, his regret, and his cowardice to anyone, especially his Mother. He preferred this cold and this sand. This was his penance.
The only thing keeping him sane now was hope. He wondered how Hermione and Harry were coping. He prayed to all forces that they were safe. The only thing he wanted to do now was find them. And, just as importantly, find that locket. He wanted to smash it with his bare hands, to destroy that piece of Voldemort that had nearly ruined his soul and taken away what was most precious to him.
oO00Oo
Hermione woke up. Pain was the first thing she felt; it was no longer a searing fire, but a dull, pulsating numbness that made her body heavy and leaden. She felt safe and warm, but her mind was still in chaos. Where were they? Where is Ron?!
In one terrifying second, the memories returned with brutal force: the Snatchers, the cold marble of Malfoy Manor, and her, pinned to the floor. Bellatrix. And then... The pain.
But she also remembered the heroism. Ron, whom she had loved for a couple of years, was ready to endure it all for her. She remembered how he had begged Bellatrix to take him instead of her. It was insane, incredible, and absolutely undeniable. The boy who often struggled with feelings of inadequacy was willing to die to save her.
She could still hear his frantic screams, likely coming from some basement. Those screams became her only anchor. In every wave of suffering, Hermione pictured Ron's crooked smile, and the knowledge that he was there and wanted to save her allowed her to survive.
Her foggy vision slowly sharpened. She looked to the side and finally breathed a sigh of relief, feeling a stone fall from her heart. She saw her ginger, who was asleep in a chair. His hand, despite being asleep, clutched hers tightly.
Ron was still holding her hand, his head resting on the chair's arm. Suddenly, he heard a barely audible, rough whisper:
"Ron..."
He lifted his head abruptly, and his tired, worried eyes widened when he saw that Hermione's eyes were open and looking at him.
"Hermione!" he gasped her name. In a second, his face lit up with a relief so powerful it nearly knocked him over.
Despite the pain and exhaustion, Hermione smiled. It was a genuine smile, meant only for him, and that single act made her fear vanish.
Ron pushed the chair back with a thud and leaned over her. He hugged her gently, as if afraid she was fragile, precious glass that he might damage. His warmth and distinctive scent (a mixture of tent mildew, sea salt, and his own familiar odour) overwhelmed her senses, instantly relaxing her tense, aching body.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
Ron began to speak. He told her about their escape, about Dobby saving them, about the other prisoners from the basement. When Hermione heard that Dobby had died to save them, her eyes immediately filled with tears. But when she heard that Ron had carried her all the way to Bill's cottage—holding her and her terrible wound—and that he had taken responsibility for her safety, she broke. She cried.
Ron instinctively hugged her tighter, rocking her. He had been her constant comforter throughout the years at Hogwarts, always protective of her. Even though they argued and bickered, he could simultaneously be the most tender and beloved person in the world.
Her Ron, her hero, who wanted to endure the pain for her. Her saviour, who had carried her out. Essentially, her everything.
"You were so brave, Hermione," he whispered, brushing his lips against her hair. "You're the strongest person I know. You made it."
She knew he wasn't saying it just to comfort her. He was saying it with admiration, with love. The embrace lasted, and they both knew, without uttering a single word, that after everything they had been through, their world had finally stabilized.
Ron still held her close, rocking her in his arms.
"I heard you," Hermione whispered, her voice still hoarse and weak. Yet, it was a whisper carrying the most powerful truth. "You were screaming, Ron. That gave me the strength. To hold on."
At those words, Ron flinched, and his arms tightened around her.
"I-I thought... I thought I lost you," he whispered with difficulty, his voice cracking on the last word. The wave of panic he had felt at Malfoy Manor returned in full force.
"We are here, Ron. You're here. It's okay. Look," she gently raised her hand and touched his stubble on his cheek. Her fingers were warm and weak, but it was enough to ground him in the present.
"I promised myself I'd never leave you," Ron said, his voice so quiet it sounded like a sacred oath made to his heart. He felt that this promise was more important than all the magic in the world.
"And you didn't leave. You're here," Hermione whispered, her gaze, though tired, radiated pure, unconditional love. She gathered the last of her strength and brushed his cheek with her lips, barely touching his skin. She tasted him—salty, exhausted, hers.
The kiss, though fleeting, made Ron melt. He returned it, kissing her forehead, with such tenderness and respect, as if touching the most delicate relic. Just as he was about to pull back to take the chair again, Hermione, nearly drifting off to sleep, tugged his shirt:
"Stay, please."
That simple word was like the last, missing element of a spell. Ron slid off the chair and lay down next to her on the bed, carefully, making sure not to hurt her, but close. Hermione immediately snuggled into his side, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Her faint breathing became regular.
They remained in silence, entwined in an absolute closeness that no longer required words.
AFTER WAR - RON AND HERMIONE'S HOUSE
"You went overboard with that, Ron," Hermione grumbled, but there was no real anger in her voice, only warmth, resignation, and amusement. She sat down heavily next to her husband on the sofa, which, although large, was now the only safe haven in this holiday frenzy.
She was watching their six-year-old daughter, Rose, who was flying on her new, children's broomstick, hovering about forty centimetres above the floor, squealing and laughing hysterically. Her red hair streamed behind her. Rose nearly flew into the huge Christmas tree standing in the corner of the living room, decorated with twinkling, magical lights and Muggle baubles.
"She is one hundred percent safe, darling," Ron replied. He grinned widely, watching his daughter. "It's a children's model, with built-in safety features, right?"
"I still don't know how you convinced me to let you buy it for her," Hermione said with a sigh, but she was already snuggling into his side. After all, it was Christmas, and Ron was obsessed with ensuring their children had as much joy and as little fear as possible.
"I'm charming," Ron sent her that crooked smile of his, the one that always made her anger, even the feigned kind, shatter into a million tiny, harmless pieces. She knew that if Rose were in any real danger, her husband would intervene immediately.
"Don't flatter yourself," she quipped, but already hugged him tightly, resting her head on his shoulder and inhaling the familiar, warm scent of his woollen jumper and wood. Ron kissed her hair, holding his breath for a moment and savouring this perfect, calm moment.
Their second child, Hugo, who had recently turned five and had a copper-coloured mop of hair, was sitting on the carpet, surrounded by WWW gadgets. He was giggling just as merrily and loudly as Rose.
"I love you, Ron," she sighed deeply and raised her head, her gaze, directed at him, full of love, happiness, and adoration.
"I love you too, Hermione," Ron replied, looking at her with equally deep affection. They kissed on the lips, both feeling each other's warmth and rejoicing in the life and family they had created together.
It's the perfect Christmas.
~ The End ~