A/N This was written for the Romione Flufffest on Tumblr. I apologize for taking so long to post it here, but I am horrible at
Prompt: "I'm nervous about this."
Description: DH tent one-shot. Hermione tends to Ron's physical and emotional well-being. Fluffsty. Pining (in the pines). Canon...no AU here!
Rating: T
To the careless observer it would appear that Hermione Granger, per usual habit, was completely absorbed in a book. She was hunched over a rather thick volume at the small table, and even though the lighting was dim, it would be easy to suppose that she was completely enthralled with the text. Closer inspection would reveal, however, that her attention was anywhere but on Ancient Runes: Denotative and Connotative Meanings for Accurate Translation.
Staring down at the pages, the words blurred as she fought back tears; the binding protesting as she gripped the edges with too much force. Books had often been her refuge, and even now, though it had failed to work for the last hour, Hermione desperately tried to calm herself through a sort of textual therapy.
The truth of the matter was that she could not stop seeing Ron, lying on the ground, covered in blood. Splinching had always seemed like such an abstract concept; one that she honestly had not taken as seriously as she should. At Hogwarts they had warned them of the dangers, but she had downplayed those in her mind, overconfident in her own abilities. Perhaps if she had taken it more seriously, this would not have happened.
The rational part of her mind told her that was not true; that the stress of the situation, the last minute necessity of changing locations were to blame for the accident, not her own shortcomings. The rational part of her mind told her that Ron would be fine; that the loss of blood and scarring would pose no real threat to him. The rational part of her mind told her that they had expected that this mission would be dangerous; that she couldn't just bundle Ron up and take him far away from this tent.
She sighed softly in resignation. When it came to Ron Weasley, the rational part of her mind seemed to pack it's trunk and head out for a holiday. She actually smiled at the thought, it had come to her, as such thoughts often did, in Ron's voice. When she had first realized the fact, about the middle of fifth year, she had been more than a little worried. The only thing she could really compare it to was the way she sometimes heard her mum's voice when she scolded herself for forgetting to floss or for staying up too late reading "just one more" chapter.
As if he could read her thoughts, even in his sleep, Ron began to stir. Hermione sprang to the side of his bed so quickly that her book dropped, forgotten to the floor. She sat gingerly on the edge, laying her hand gently on top of his slightly feverish one. His furrowed brow relaxed at her touch. That was something, wasn't it? No matter how many doubts she still had, she was certain that he was better when she was near him; that she was better when he was near her. Last year in the hospital wing she had finally seen it. It was more than a passing fancy, more than friendship, more than a physical attraction. The way he had beamed at her every time she came in to visit him, the way he had held her at Dumbledore's funeral, the way he comforted her when she came to the Burrow, the way he let her comfort him after their arrival at Grimmauld Place, just thinking about it made he relieved and nervous all at the same time.
She thought back over the expanse of their years as friends and wondered, would they ever be able to have these moments without one or both of them being in mortal peril? She really hoped that the answer would be yes, but quite frankly, right now she found it difficult to even imagine a world where they weren't in imminent danger. A world where they could just be normal teenagers; a boy and a girl who could hold hands as they walked to class, not as they tried to forget his family being attacked. A boy and a girl who could sneak up to his bedroom to snog, not to plan a mission to save the world. Yes, she would very much like to live, with him, in that world, but perhaps this was the only way to make that world exist.
"My-nee?" his voice came out so low, that for a moment she thought he had said it in his sleep, but when she looked down, his eyes were open.
"I'm right here," she leaned down a bit and squeezed his hand slightly, "are you alright? Do you need anything?"
" 'Mgood...thought for a minute there that I was dreaming."
"Hope I didn't wake you, let me go so you can go back to sleep. It's not time to check your bandage yet," she dropped her eyes, hoping that he could not feel the way her hand had started to tremble as he held it tighter in his own.
"No! Stay!" He tried to sit up, but couldn't quite manage it. "Please."
"Ok. If you promise to rest, I think you're healing nicely, but I don't want you to try and do too much too soon, I feel bad enough about it already."
He looked at her, and his eyes narrowed, "First of all, it wasn't your fault...second of all no bloke ever minds a pretty girl having to tend to him."
She was stunned into silence momentarily as his face lit up with a weak, but brilliant smile. She fought to keep her own tone light, "Is that so?"
"Yep."
"I guess tending to handsome blokes like you isn't so bad."
"Well, as someone who seems to need a lot of tending, I hope you know what you're getting yourself into."
She looked around the tent and sighed, "Not sure either of us have a good track record of knowing what we're getting into."
"Fair point."
"Ron?"
"Yeah."
"I'm nervous about this," when their eyes met, they both knew that she was talking about more than hunting horcruxes.
"Me too, but" he laced his fingers with hers, "when something is really important, when you have to get it right, I think being nervous is a good thing."
She could barely breathe, but she knew he was right. As much as she sometimes hated the knots in her stomach and the ache in her heart, she also knew that when the stakes were this high, you couldn't take it lightly.
"I saw him."
"Him?" The confusion was evident on her face
"My dad."
"Ron…" He had shared with her, during their times alone at Grimmauld Place, just how worried he was about his family.
"I talked to him."
"What did he say?"
"He...he didn't know it was me. He was just trying to help Cattermole."
"That sounds like him for sure," Hermione could not help but make the connection. She had been so touched by Ron's own concern for the man and his wife, and it seemed so right that he had that in common with Arthur.
"I wish I could have told him it was me-that we are alright. I wish I could've asked about...everybody else," she was certain that he would have never shared this with Harry, not so much because he did not want to be vulnerable, but more so because Ron would not have wanted to give him any more burden.
"Well...he is at work...I guess that's a good sign, right?"
"Yeah, but it's so dangerous...I never really thought about it before, ya know? I always thought he had this boring little Ministry job...that he was just my dad."
Ron was right; she hadn't really thought about it either. She searched for something to say to ease his concern, but she would not patronize him by trying to downplay the dangers that she now knew Arthur Weasley faced daily. "Your dad is the best dad I've ever known."
"You think so?"
"Yeah," it was the truth. As much as she loved her own father, she could not imagine him juggling all the responsibilities that Arthur did. He was really a marvel: full of warmth and humor and curiosity, but ready without hesitation to defend those he loved.
"I think so too," he beamed up at her, his face full of love and pride.
She wondered if Ron had any idea just how much he was like his father.
"Just wish I could tell him...that I had told him, before now," his face fell a little, and she knew his real fear was that he would never have the chance, that it was too late.
"I think we are all guilty of that, it's human nature."
"I guess when you're around someone really amazing for a really long time...you kinda take it for granted..that they...know how you feel," he was drawing lazy circles with his thumb over the back of her hand.
"True. You think that they must know how much you...admire them."
"That they have to understand just how brilliant you think they are."
Their gazes locked. There was a time, not so long before, that they would have both looked away. And while they were not yet able to fully express the full import of their words, they had reached an even better understanding. There was a recognition of shared feelings, like a slowly developing picture, or the lyric of an almost remembered song: still a little fragile, but oh so very real.