"You're sure?" says Ron. He is hanging over the back of his chair to talk, his chin resting on his hands.
"Yes, Ron," says Hermione. She playfully prods the side of his head. "I know what I'm getting into, you know."
She treads carefully around the stacks of laundry and sits on the arm of his chair. He turns and slouches back, looks up at her. Right now with her hair wild around her face she is fearless and collected, like she's just fought in a battle, even though Ron knows she was only helping his mum pruning the hedge.
Ron can't help but compare her confidence, her competence, to his own. He knows he is not as smart or as brave or as good. But he also knows that he is the one who understands this war completely.
"Don't take this the wrong way," he says, "but I don't know if you understand what's so dangerous about this."
She doesn't appear to take it the wrong way but the day is still young. "I know about the Dark Arts," she says, and smiles. Probably she thinks he's kidding around.
That would be just like him anyway, not taking their job tomorrow seriously enough.
"There's stuff you can't read in books," he tries to explain. He feels like You-Know-Who is more dangerous, more terrible through his parents' fear, through the thin panic he could sense in Diagon Alley last week when they went to visit the twins at the shop, through the stories that the Order tells sometimes. Hermione is brilliant but she didn't grow up in the aftermath of a war the way he and Ginny and his brothers have.
He doesn't know how to explain it without sounding condescending, though, and the last thing he wants to do is sound condescending.
Hermione doesn't respond for a moment; when she does her voice is a little more serious. "Is this because I'm a Muggleborn?"
"No," says Ron, then, "Well, yeah."
He hates to leave it at that so he rushes to explain himself. "I don't mean that you can't learn or whatever, I just think you haven't grown up with this."
"No, I understand," says Hermione, and half laughs. "I'd never expect you to know all about racism in Britain or misogyny or anything."
"Yeah," says Ron, mostly relieved that she isn't going to fight him about it.
She gives him a searching look. "Do you think I'm too naïve for tomorrow?"
"No!" says Ron, a little too fast. Hell, he thinks she is better prepared than he is. She laughs, and he smiles.
"I don't think you're naïve at all," he says. She pats his shoulder and hops off the chair.
"I still don't trust Mundungus's idea," she says.
"Be honest, you just don't trust Dung," says Ron, and she laughs. When Hermione laughs, a real laugh, it always sounds surprised. Like she's shocked that Ron is funny, even though that's really all he can be.
"That too."
"Nobody does, Hermione," says Ron. "But he's a little mad and sometimes you need to be a little mad to make it."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" says Hermione.
"Maybe," says Ron.
"Hmph," she replies, and smiles.
"I wonder what Harry's potion looks like," says Ron.
Hermione snorts. "Brooding, maybe."
Ron laughs, but then quiets. He's suddenly filled with guilt that he and Hermione are here laughing over Mundungus Fletcher and Harry's Polyjuice when Harry is, in all likelihood, brooding in his own isolation about Dumbledore and You-Know-Who.
Hermione must feel the same way, because she puts her hand on his shoulder. "Tomorrow," she says. "We'll bring Harry here and he can... he can brood on the wedding preparations instead."
Ron smiles, and he summons just enough guts to pat her hand on his shoulder. "He can ignore them, more like," he says.
"Your mum'll have a conniption," says Hermione. Ron laughs. Hermione puts her hands in her pockets and he misses her touch.
"She's having a conniption anyway," he points out. They both pause and consider that. Mum is still out in the garden.
"We should go help with the hedges."
"Right."
They both start towards the back door at the same time, and Ron snorts and lets her in front. Mum sets them to work on the hedge at the far end of the garden and they work side by side, Hermione with a big pair of shears and Ron sweeping up after. "D'you reckon he's alright on his own?" Ron says. "I mean he's had a nasty few months."
Hermione frowns and clips a chunk of hedge. "I'm sure he'll be glad to see us," she says.
"Course he will," says Ron. It's not quite funny.
They retreat back to the sitting room when the hedge is trimmed and Ron sits back down. "I know I sound like a bad portrait, but really," he says. "You're sure you want to go tomorrow? I know you hate flying."
"I asked Kingsley already about that," she says. Ron grins.
"Course you did. What's he doing, magic carpets?"
"Thestrals," says Hermione.
Ron's distrust must show through on his face; she laughs.
He knows that admitting it makes him an awful friend but it's the truth: Harry is going to bring the mood down tomorrow no matter how well Dung's plan works. He is grateful, then, for this last day before whatever will come next, before Harry arrives at the Burrow and they have to face the war together.
"It's mad to trust an invisible skeleton horse over a broom," he says.
"It's mad to have seven Harrys too," she says. "Isn't that why it works?"
"Tell yourself that," he cracks, and they both fold over themselves laughing.