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The circumstance of Ron having read a book that Hermione had not was unprecedented. Ron, however, looked bemused by their surprise.
“Oh come on! All the old kids’ stories are supposed to be Beedle’s, aren’t they? ‘The Fountain of Fair Fortune’ … ‘The Wizard and the Hopping Pot’ … ‘Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump’ …”
“Excuse me?” said Hermione, giggling. “What was that last one?”
“Come off it!” said Ron, looking in disbelief from Harry to Hermione. “You must’ve heard of Babbity Rabbity—”
“Ron, you know full well Harry and I were brought up by Muggles!” said Hermione. “We didn’t hear stories like that when we were little, we heard ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarves’ and ‘Cinderella’ —”
“What’s that, an illness?” asked Ron.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, ch. 7
* * *
Hermione’s feet dragged through the brush as she hauled herself into the tent while Harry took over watch, the day’s events having exhausted her thoroughly. It felt like years had passed rather than mere hours since they had last been at Grimmauld Place; it was almost impossible to believe it had been only that morning that they had set off on their reckless adventure to the Ministry. She should have known they couldn’t waltz into the heart of what was now enemy territory and emerge unscathed. Anything that could have gone wrong had. It was only fortunate that the damage hadn’t been worse.
Urgency lit suddenly into her steps like her shoes had caught on fire as she entered the room and saw Ron trying to haul himself out of the bunk. It seemed to take him a great deal of effort on his injured arm, and Hermione rushed to stop him. “Wait, don’t get up,” she said quickly, hurrying to his side. “What do you need?”
“Er…” Ron smirked sheepishly at her. “The loo.”
“Oh.” Heat flooded Hermione’s cheeks as she collapsed to a seat on the bed Ron had just vacated. “Well—yes, I suppose you’re on your own for that.”
She remained where she was as Ron shuffled off toward the bathroom, picking anxiously at the seams of the quilt on the bed. It was all her fault that Ron was hurt, and she wasn’t sure how to make it better. How to heal his injured arm or to alleviate the guilt she carried about it. The worst part was that Ron didn’t even seem to blame her. Every time she had checked on him throughout the afternoon and evening, asked him what she could do for him, the answer had been the same: nothing. And he didn’t seem troubled at all that she was the reason he hadn’t been able to get out of bed all day while Hermione was nearly collapsing under the weight of what she had done to him.
Even after resting most of the day, Ron’s eyelids were heavy as he returned to the bunk, and he gave Hermione’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before he slipped past her and back under the covers, undeterred by her presence. “You should get some sleep,” he muttered, his voice muffled into his pillow. “Been a hell of a day.”
Hermione didn’t move, simply stared at Ron’s profile, at his pale eyelashes resting against freckled cheeks and the way that his chest rose and fell in a steady, comforting rhythm. “Can I get you anything before I go to bed?” she whispered, in case he had already fallen asleep.
“ ‘ermione.” Ron rolled over with a soft grunt and cracked one eye open to look at her. “It’s not your fault.”
She bristled as if he had slapped her and prepared herself to argue. “Ron—”
“You got us out of there. It could have been worse.”
“It could have gone better,” Hermione retorted. “We lost our safe house. We don’t have any food. You could have—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it, but Ron’s lips pursed briefly, and she knew the sentence didn’t need completing. “I just want to help,” she finished weakly.
“Get some sleep,” Ron repeated. “That will help.” He slid toward the far edge of the bunk and lifted the edge of the quilt, and Hermione barely held back her sharp gasp of surprise at the invitation. She and Ron had slept side-by-side at Grimmauld—but not like this.
“I—I need to brush my teeth,” Hermione blurted, springing to her feet. Not that she thought Ron had anything in mind for which fresh breath would be important, but as the daughter of two dentists, the nighttime habit was thoroughly ingrained. Besides, she needed a moment to collect herself before getting into bed with Ron.
He nodded knowingly and began rearranging the pillows to make space for both of them. When Hermione returned a few minutes later, minty fresh and clad in her pajamas, she hesitated only a moment before crawling under the covers beside Ron. That was as far as she got before indecision and uncertainty froze her movements; she wasn’t sure how to do this, whether Ron intended to snuggle close to her or whether this was simply a means of sharing body heat by virtue of proximity. That, at least, was clearly working. Between Ron’s natural warmth and the pile of blankets and the fact that Hermione’s blood was pumping at what must have been twice its normal rate, the bunk felt like the surface of the sun.
Ron’s injured arm was the one that lay between them, and Hermione rolled carefully to her side so as not to jostle him. He was stretched out on his back, but his head was turned toward her and she felt her pulse spike further as his gaze met hers in the glow from the living room candles, the only light in the tent. “Is this okay?” he asked softly.
Hermione swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Whatever you want,” she replied weakly.
“This isn’t about helping my arm,” Ron said. “I just—want you here. And I’m asking if you’re okay with that.”
It was the closest either of them had ever come to admitting their feelings outright, and a different kind of warmth coursed through Hermione’s veins as she relaxed into the mattress. “Yes,” she breathed. “I’m okay.”
Ron nodded and then shut his eyes. Hermione tried to sleep too, but it was nearly impossible with her heart and brain both racing. After several long moments, during which she assumed he had fallen asleep, Ron whispered, “Could you tell me a bedtime story?”
The question was so unexpected that Hermione couldn’t help but laugh as she opened her eyes; Ron’s were still closed. “A story?” she repeated.
“Yeah, maybe one of those Muggle fairy tales you were talking about. Cindy and the Seven Dragons or something.”
Hermione chuckled again but didn’t bother to correct him. “Actually, my personal favorite is Beauty and the Beast.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because the Beast’s castle has a library in it.”
Ron snorted a laugh and then lifted his gaze to hers, his expression soft. “Tell me that one, then.”
Magic seemed to crackle in the air between them as Hermione slid closer into Ron’s side. He shifted his arm so that it rested under her neck, his hand curled around her shoulder. “Am I hurting you?” she asked worriedly, and Ron shook his head as he closed his eyes again.
“Not a bit.”
“Okay.” The day had been a difficult one, but the way it was ending buoyed Hermione’s spirits, even as she knew there would only be harder days to come. She took a deep breath, her gaze raking over Ron’s peaceful expression once more before she began. “Once upon a time…”