Beating
Warm morning sunlight streamed in through the gap in the curtains around his bed. Every inch of him ached; he felt stiff and strange. He didn't want to open his eyes. There were things he would have to do, feelings he would have to feel, and he wasn't ready. The slow rhythm of his own breath was like the peaceful wash of waves… he felt sleep start to drift over him again, cosy, safe, tucked up in a Hogwarts bed. In an indistinct way, he thought of her; something of her smile and eyes, the sound of affection in her voice, the mess of her coconut scented hair… the energy of her, the feel of her close by. It was a habit, to think of her as he fell asleep, a slightly guilty pleasure that soothed his anxieties; a little fantasy to placate the part of him that knew it to be impossible. Comforted in daydream, he could imagine and believe, half-sleeping, that endless possibilities stretched out in front of them, and everything would be fine.
Somehow this morning, the hazy, sleepy fantasy was particularly good. His vague imaginings felt close and real, punctuated by the heat of his heartbeat, and some of them were little memories, flitting through his mind… he drifted along on a peaceful tide of happiness, and without deliberately focusing on anything in particular, his brain shifted into reverse, dragging him away from the edge of sleep, catching on images and memories, elaborating on fantasies, and slowly building up to a new feeling.
It felt solid and clear. It was warm and satisfying and he knew what it was before he could put it into words, and in the moment that he recognised the feeling, he crossed that almost invisible line between dozing and waking, returning heavily to his achy body, with the sunlight streaming down on his face.
He couldn't help grinning. It didn't make sense, that he should feel this now… or did it? He turned it over in his brain. Between yesterday and today, what had changed?
Almost everything.
But what specifically…
It was a puzzle.
But he was good at puzzles.
Well, no, he wasn't that good at- but yes he was. He was very good at puzzles.
Huh.
His eyes snapped open.
It was disorienting, because it wasn't their old dorm room, and he had a panicked moment when he saw the empty bed beside his. She should have been in it. That was why he'd left the curtains open, so he could see her.
He checked the other side, but Harry and Ginny were gone as well, bedclothes left in a tangle.
He grabbed his wand from under his pillow, and his fingertips brushed the edge of a hard fold of parchment.
Ron, we've all gone down to the kitchens to start on breakfast. You looked so peaceful we didn't want to wake you. Come down when you're ready. Love Hermione
Hermione and breakfast? If he didn't know how thoroughly they'd secured the castle, he would have suspected a trap.
He scourgified the jeans and t-shirt he'd left on the floor, pulled them on, and headed for the stairs.
Seeking
He had slept for a long time. Everyone was there, piled into the Gryffindor common room, with tables pinched from elsewhere, and piles of toast and muffins, and scrambled eggs, and porridge, and sausages and grilled tomato, and she was eating a bowl of plain yoghurt and muesli and she looked exhausted and pale and beaten, and this time, as her face lit up when she saw him, he knew he wasn't imagining it, and he couldn't help it, he just grinned back at her, like a fool, and this time, unlike all those times before, he didn't break eye contact, until someone spoke and gave him a plate, and he was wrapped up in the bustle of greetings and breakfast and grief and heartbreak.
Reality faded the warm buzz into the background, and it hurt, but not enough. It was as though the feeling that went along with reality was so enormous, it couldn't be felt all at once.
He ricocheted from feeling stabbed through the soul, to incredibly tired, to delirious and giddy, back to wracked with panic and the mental rejection of everything that had happened.
He let his eyes find her, whenever reality threatened to overwhelm and drown him, he sought her out, and held her gaze, and felt comforted.
He survived breakfast.
They cleaned and tidied. People declared their intentions: showers, prayers, grief, sleep.
He sought her out. Not so simple amid his devastated family and friends, not so easy when he'd volunteered to begin the gruelling process of transporting the dead out of Hogwarts and back to their families. Not straightforward, when she was busying herself with other people's problems, clinging to the distraction of spell work, and generally giving orders and bossing people around in that typically brilliant way.
He managed to catch her for a moment, and he hadn't had to say anything, just find her eyes between tasks and twitch his head to call her, and she came.
His voice was still hoarse, throat raw, "I've spent almost every waking and sleeping moment for the past seven years with a horcrux,"
She blinked at him, not understanding yet.
"You mean Harry?"
He nodded, and tried to find the words.
"The horcruxes were all different. Like, they were different parts of his soul. They did different things."
Her eyebrows were drawn together, thinking.
"I suppose that's possible… like a human body, you mean, made up of different components; an arm as distinct from a head, so to speak. I didn't find anything on that in the literature…" She paused, "I see what you mean though: the diary possessed Ginny, but the locket didn't possess anyone, and Harry was never possessed… what made you think of that?"
He wanted to apologise for something that wasn't his fault. His weaknesses had been exploited, yes. The doubt was still there, true. But it wasn't master of him any more. It couldn't blind him in quite the same way.
"I woke up feeling different," he said, "I wondered if you did too,"
She stared up at him, dark shadows under her eyes, and along with the thinking and the worry was a familiar look he could finally name.
Longing.
"I… I'm not sure. It's… all a bit overwhelming… what… how do you feel different? Are you sure it's not just… you know, relief and shock and grief?"
"Oi Hermione, you gotta minute?" Someone was calling from the other side of the room, and they both glanced over to see what was going on.
"I should probably…"
"Yeah, me too," he said, and he let himself hold her gaze for that tiny fraction longer. He knew an impulse to reach out and touch her, but all at once the moment was gone, and he was going, and she was going, and he'd said as much as he could manage for now.
Chasing
The day was interminably long. The aching muscles, the howling grief, the dark dead shock… Hogwarts in pieces, families crushed. They'd put the bodies on tables, and floated the tables out, an inch off the floor. It was practical. It looked funereal.
Without the tables, it would look too much like what Death Eaters did for fun.
The surviving Aurors took them then, one at a time, by apparition from the front gates.
But obviously not all of them.
The pain that was too enormous to feel kept swamping him in contractions.
He held his breath, or breathed deeply, or put his head down near his knees, depending on which way the pain took him.
Sometimes it was sharp. Other times blunt.
Often it was as though his lungs would burst. As though the pain would blow him apart from the inside.
And then it was gone for a while. And for a while he could work.
She was blinking back tears at lunch. Hiding it well. But choking down a sandwich.
It was exhaustion first for her. She had been so strong for so long…
But if the exhaustion blew the lid off all the other feelings…
He had to get back to work, and he couldn't stay, and the sight of her close to crying was far too dangerous.
He got up to leave, and as he passed her he touched her arm.
"Sleeping draught." He said, "Ask Pomfrey, she gave some to mum and Percy."
"What?"
"Take a nap,"
"But…"
"Take a nap,"
She pressed her lips together as the tears welled up again, but she nodded.
He felt that she needed more than that. He didn't know why, just that the new feeling of certainty he'd woken up with seemed to think so.
"That old jumper is on my bed if you want it," He mumbled, "If you get cold,"
A feeble explanation for the offer really, and he knew she knew it from her startled expression. She even went a little pink, as she thanked him.
He'd never let on that he knew she'd worn his jumper when they'd been separated. She must've worn it quite a few times. He'd thrown it on and thought for a mad minute that someone had spilled love potion all over it in his absence.
Even with that reminder he still felt the little prickle of doubt.
At least now it was just a prickle.
Time to go.
"Hey, wait up," Harry, anxiously eyeing him from behind smudged glasses, "I'll come with you, if you're heading back down,"
Back down into the abyss, he thought grimly, back down out of the light.
Back to Fred.
Cold lead in his stomach. Another contraction of panic.
He closed his eyes and waited for the moment to pass.
Her little hand on his elbow. Concern leaking through her fingers.
"Don't." His voice sounded harsh. "I can't let it catch up with me. Don't be nice."
"Ron-" That sympathetic tone.
He flung around and headed for the portrait hole.
He'd apologise later if he needed to.
She'd understand.
She always forgave him.
Even when he didn't deserve it.
Keeping
He stood in the shower, with the hot water rushing over all his aches and stinging all the places he'd missed with dittany.
There was an emptiness now.
Like the calm before a storm.
Like the emotions were collecting. Brewing. Having a big meeting about how best to cripple him.
He caught himself vaguely wishing he'd been the one to die.
He charmed shampoo into his hair, made it coconut scented, and closed his eyes.
It was hard to imagine anything.
The coconut helped.
He could see in his mind the side of her face as she turned away from him to conceal a smile at a joke she disapproved of.
He could always make her laugh.
Except when he made her cry.
"Dammit, Hermione."
"What?"
She hadn't been in the showers when he'd come in. It had been Ginny and Seamus before.
"Nothing… We've had a lot of stupid arguments, that's all. Wish I could undo them,"
He listened to the hush of the water, and some distant part of his brain pointed out that she was naked somewhere nearby. The overall feeling of being sort of dead was so strong that the idea was almost funny.
Any other day, his heart would be going wild.
"Oh." And then, "Me too."
He was re-soaping his arms. Not because he hadn't cleaned them twice already. Just. It felt strangely safe here, in the hot water, away from his family. Away from his grief. And she was there. Just a voice.
"I'm sorry for the way I was when you came back."
Furious?
"Nah. You were right to be pissed with me,"
"I was devastated."
She was wandering very close to the truth. That silent secret that hung between them unspoken, unheard, unbelieved.
"I know,"
He turned the shower off and grabbed his towel, drying himself slowly, waiting.
"What do you mean?" Her tone was very light. Deliberate.
Looking for an answer to that unarticulated question?
If the absence of Harry's horcrux was affecting her too…
He would have to say something now.
Perhaps he didn't feel quite so dead after all.
His heartbeat was back.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the cubicle to buy himself some time.
"I didn't know you felt like that… until today," he said honestly, knowing it sounded a bit cryptic. He headed for the exit, escape planned.
The shower beside him turned off, and the door bounced open, and there she was, shrouded in steam, wrapped hastily in a towel, hair already bouncing back into a cloud, soapy shampoo streaks, and water droplets beading and dripping…
"You didn't know until today? But you must have. How can you've just woken up this morning knowing that I… It doesn't make sense!"
It couldn't be just him surely. She hadn't spent as much time with Harry, and she was stronger than he was… Perhaps the effects of the horcrux weren't as pronounced.
Insecurities.
This was going to take nerve.
Why did it have to be that?
There were other things, he supposed, but this was the simplest to say.
If only they'd been wearing clothes. That at least would've made it less…
He raked a hand through his damp hair.
How certain are you?
A million little memories, little snippets of evidence flicked through his mind.
Fairly certain. I'm fairly certain.
He looked at the stone floor. A gamble. He closed his eyes and let it out with a rush of breath.
"I think you're incredibly sexy, you know that?"
"Well, yes," she said, like it was obvious, "You think that, but what's that got to… wait," her brows knitted, "But I'm not… but…" she looked at him, bewildered, "What the hell is going on, Ron?"
He was actually shaking now. The effort of saying something so… so brutally obvious had drained all his energy. He felt quite weak.
"Horcrux," he managed to say, "I couldn't believe that you would ever… and I couldn't believe that I was good at… and so I figured maybe you couldn't believe…" He made an awkward shrugging gesture, utterly unable to say it again, and wishing to high heaven he'd been able to think of one of her other insecurities in a way that would've been easy to explain. People like you even if you don't know all the answers. Dammit, why hadn't he just said that?
She was blinking at him.
It really wasn't helping the shaking.
He felt slightly lightheaded.
Oh God, I've really fucked this up… and now I'm going to faint… holyfuckRonyoudickhead…
"Ron, I think you should sit down, your face has gone green," she was using that worried tone again, and walking towards him, all drippy, in a towel for- yeah, this reeeally wasn't good.
He backed up until the bench against the wall hit the back of his legs. He sat down unsteadily and put his head in his hands.
She was still standing in front of him. He could see through his fingers water droplets clinging to her ankles. Her feet were mottled, magically healing blisters and bruises leaving colours all over them.
He just listened to the thumping of his panicky heart and his wheezy breathing.
"This is why you're in Gryffindor," she said bluntly, "And you are good at things, brilliant, in fact, and I do feel…" she let out an impatient sigh, "See? Look, I'm still terrified you're going to laugh at me,"
His eyes flicked up to look at her, almost of their own accord. Her wet, soapy arms were folded across her body, tightly holding the towel in place. She looked… well. She looked kind of loopy, actually. Enormous mad hair. Dripping and soapy and anxious.
He shook his head.
"I would never-"
"I know," she said quickly, blushing, "Well, I know now. I can't believe I didn't understand this morning, when you were trying to explain… Ginny kept hugging me and I wasn't that surprised, and I started thinking well, maybe she actually likes you as a friend, you know-"
"What?" This startled him, "But you guys have been friends for years,"
She looked acutely uncomfortable.
"Yes, but I thought it was just that we kept getting thrown together, like whenever I came to visit, just because I was a girl, and then you know, I'd just done the year she was about to start so…"
"That's insane," he said, "I assume you've realised people like you regardless of whether or not you've done the homework, right?"
Her blush deepened.
"I… I guess?"
"Good."
He stared at her for a minute, trying to work out what to do next. It seemed rude just to leave.
Well.
Flee.
She made an indecisive noise.
"Um… so, I need to finish my shower…"
"Yup, right. I'm going to…" he pointed to the door, "Pyjamas…"
She nodded, a cascade of little droplets and the odd soap bubble.
Time to go.
He definitely needed some space. To breathe. And panic.
And sleep.
He started to think about sleep as he made his way back to the dormitory, and the strange warm wash of mortification and optimism muddled his thoughts. It was as though, now it really was a possibility, it was some how less reassuring and more terrifying.
He focused on quidditch instead, because food was out, given the intermittent queasiness of the giant feeling of whatever it was that was wrapped up with a smashed castle and everyone that went with it…
He might actually get to see the Cannons play this year. It would be good to see- hang on, who was on the team now? Had they all survived?
He pulled on his pyjamas and tried to ignore the spiralling sickness in his chest.
It was horrible, this emotional ricocheting.
Harry wandered in, an enormous yawn stretching his face.
"Hey,"
"Hermione in the shower?"
"Yeah,"
She fancies you.
Probably.
She very nearly said…
But she didn't.
"How are you?"
"You know it's odd," said Harry, flumping down on the next bed and adjusting his glasses, "I feel pretty good. I know everything's awful, and half the time it's like I've been hit by a bludger the size of Jupiter, but… I feel… less… angry and paranoid? Like maybe everyone isn't trying to kill me. And I don't think I could do Cruciatus again. And… and like, now that it's over, maybe… things will get good. And then I remember…"
Ron shoved the neatly folded jumper out of the way and sat down on his own bed.
"Good to be horcrux-free then?"
"Definitely," Harry grinned suddenly, and waggled his eyebrows, "So what's up with you and Hermione?"
"Uhn…"
"Hey Harry," She was back, in tired clean pyjamas, her hair a bushy explosion. "Where's Ginny?"
"With Luna and Neville,"
"Oh," She sat down, and picked up the jumper, refolding it the same way she'd left it, "So… have you talked to her yet?"
Harry grinned at her.
"I can take a hint," he said, getting up and heading for the door.
"Oh, I didn't mean-"
"If you didn't, you should've. And just so you know, she's blaming the horcrux for me not letting her come with us, so we're good. I might stay in the other dorm tonight, hear some more of Neville's stories. See you tomorrow,"
Harry waggled his eyebrows at them, and pulled the door shut.
Ron waited. His heartbeat was back, a giddy thumping in his chest, and a strange tiredness seemed to be bubbling up inside.
There was nothing to say.
He had misread the situation, surely. You don't just wake up one day and know that someone loves you.
It doesn't work like that.
He felt a sudden jolt of panic. He'd misread. He was wrong. She wanted Harry gone so she could say he'd misunderstood…
Because it's not something sudden, is it? It grows on you, doesn't it? Day by day, you notice the little things they say and do, the way they look at you…
But he had noticed, he argued to himself for the umpteenth time, he just hadn't been able to see what all the little things added up to…
"Do you think this maybe explains Neville?" she was asking. Her voice was stiff and high beside him. Anxiety.
"What?"
"Well, I'm not saying he wasn't a nervous kid, but… well, he just flourished when we left. He's always been kind of… sensitive is the wrong word. Emotionally adept? Do you think maybe that made him particularly susceptible to sleeping next to a Horcrux?"
Her face, worried. Hands twisting on themselves.
He was staring. He hadn't meant to.
"Yeah. Maybe."
She bit her lip.
"I'm not as brave as you," It came out squeaky and high, gaze averted, face in profile.
The warm cloak of certainty settled over him again. He gave her a gentle shove with his elbow. A tingle of magic…
"Go on then, spit it out,"
"I love you so much it hurts," she said in a rush, eyes tight shut, hands clenched, "And I really don't know that I'll cope if we try this and you change your mind,"
The last flimsy pieces of doubt fell away like dead leaves.
"Never gonna happen."
She turned to look at him, eyes wet and earnest.
He wanted to touch her.
He didn't know how.
"I'm serious, Ron,"
"So am I. You're stuck with me,"
She gave a little breathy laugh, eyebrows still knitted with worry.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to relax into the confidence of knowing she loved him.
"So… I'm going to get into bed. I'd like you to join me. If you'd like to…"
Another breathy laugh, but this time he saw the worry was starting to unravel.
"That's very formal," she was almost smiling now, tossing the jumper over to the other bed.
"Well, it's awkward," he said, tamping down the jittering nerves and climbing in between the covers, "You'd think after the times I've fantasised about it, kissing you wouldn't be that difficult, but it is."
She was definitely smiling now. An adorable, blushing, shy smile.
"I know what you mean," she mumbled, climbing in beside him and scooping her hair out of the way, her cheek on the pillow, her brown eyes alight with something he'd never seen before…
He knew his eyebrows had shot up in surprise.
She bit her lip and trailed her fingertips down the side of his face.
The tingle of magic melted hot onto his skin.
He pulled the covers up over them and tucked one hand into her hair.
He'd very rarely touched her in the past. The odd, awkward hug, the physicality of frantic escapes, but never… like this. That had been wise, he realised, because right now, proximity overwhelmed him, drenching his senses with her scent, the sound of her breath, the frizz of her hair, those brown eyes dilated and deep. Hot adrenalin he didn't recognise swamped his brain, and he noticed everything; the healing bruises, a new scar stretching palely from her eyebrow to her ear, the fairer tips of her eyelashes, the cupid's bow of her lips… the tip of her nose against his, the tiny gasp she made as she pressed her body up to his as though magnetised… and that was it, really, that sound, and the feel of her, and the energy of her, so close…
He'd known how he felt. He'd worked it out eventually, after a few too many of those dreams. And he'd fantasised and imagined. But now, with reality, this specific reality pouring through him, the double shock of lust and magic struck him hard. Searing through him, with his mouth on hers before he'd quite realised what he was doing, he felt everything in minute detail, and in no detail at all. She was pressed against him everywhere, breasts against him, hips against him, one sock-clad foot stroking up his leg, little needy gasps punctuating the tiny spaces between kisses. The restraint he was desperately clinging to was dissolving in a whirlpool of heat and desire, and the soundtrack was the sizzling of the bedclothes where hot blue sparks of magic darted from her hand, thumb by his ear, fingertips through his hair, digging into his scalp, dragging him closer.
She pulled away, and the look of consternation and annoyance on her face as she realised what she was doing twisted his stomach.
"Don't stop," he croaked, "Castle's trashed anyway,"
But she had a hand over her face, retreating, embarrassed.
He'd squashed those feelings down for so long, hiding behind friendship and bulky school robes, and endless grime from camping; he was in the habit of hiding, holding back… and apparently, so was she…
Show her. Let go.
He ran his fingertips through her hair and let need swamp him. The air crackled, and twisted little forks of light shot from his fingers through her hair, and her eyes flew open, startled.
"Don't hold back," His voice felt rusty, "Please."
She let out a shaky breath.
"You too,"
"What?"
"Don't hold back,"
"But…" the words died in his throat as she ran a hand down his chest, lust-driven magic vanishing a palm-width of shirt beneath her fingers.
"Promise you'll tell me to stop?" she whispered, "If, you know, you're not comfortable, or…" she looked sort of dazed and drunk, tracing his chest hair with her sparking fingers, "Are you sure about this? It's not just a weird reaction to… everything?"
Fred.
She meant Fred.
Icy panic lanced through him.
"No," he said quickly, "I'm not… I can't… it's going to hit me. But it hasn't yet, so…"
She nodded. The heat was fading a little, with all this serious talk, a gentle eddy of desire starting to settle.
It seemed… fine. As though part of him, the part that the horcrux normally silenced, felt confident that this was only the first of many nights with Hermione in his arms, and just the smallest taste of what life would be like from here on out.
He realised he hadn't said it yet, not properly, so he told her he loved her, so fucking much, and grinned at her little cry of relief, and the way she pressed against him, sliding her leg up over his hip, unthinking.
His hand, in response, stroked down her spine, and she was shifting with the movement, rubbing up against him, and he was caught in her eyes, which widened at the same moment his did, her mouth an 'oh' of surprise, as the burning, boiling heat of seven years of unexpressed lust and longing hit them all over again, snapping through restraint, raw and wild, and she had a fist in his hair and her tongue in his mouth, and the crackle of magic danced around them, and they were melting through fabric, skin to skin, and there was nothing else to say, and the last thought he had before vanishing completely, was that he couldn't believe they'd never done this before, because it was so fucking obvious…