The thump of footsteps on the groaning wooden stairs roused the brunette witch from her place deep in Commentaries on the Common Wizarding Laws of Britain Minister Shacklebolt had leant her several days ago. Her eyes narrowed from the tiny words on the page as she tried to discern who might have made their way to the very top of the Burrow. It wasn't quite time for lunch, which wasn't even taken as a large group these days anyway but a solitary affair, where the hungry ones would enter the kitchen and eat at their leisure without needing to carry on any small-talk. Since the return to this place, an unspoken rule that no one needed to partake in merriment had replaced age-old traditions of loud, shared mealtimes. It was still the time for mourning, despite long days full of sunshine in the home nestled among the green rolling hills.
With bated breath, she expected to hear a knock on the small door at any moment but instead the sounds of someone creaking open the little hatch in the ceiling and creep up the ladder meant the attic was their destination, not her boyfriend's bedroom.
Her boyfriend. Hermione couldn't stand how that word made her feel – equal parts mortified at the frivolous term and at the same time downright pleased. Ronald Weasley meant so much more to her than that silly word encompassed. Her was her best friend, and she loved him with her whole heart. She had told him that several months before, the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts had claimed some of their dearest friends, allies, and, of course, Fred. Hermione could still vividly remember the brilliant smile Ron shot back at her when the words slipped from her mouth as they had been walking hand-in-hand down to the Great Hall through the rubble of their beloved school. It was a paradoxical moment – sublime, heartbreaking, and just felt right amid all the tragedy.
Ron leaned heavily on Hermione from that point on, putting on a face for the cameras and interviews and representing his grieving family as best he could in the subsequent days and breaking down in her arms just as soon as the two were alone. Ron's breaking down wasn't the same as Hermione's, who ashamedly ended up in tears and gasps and snotty nose blowing. No, Ron went completely silent and caved in on himself, shaking and muttering so quietly that Hermione could only comprehend the sorrowful utterances if she forced open his arms and pressed her face very close to his. For his love for food, Ron was horrible at remembering mealtimes these days and probably would have lost even more weight without Hermione's intervention. When it was placed before him he ate, but gone were the days she remembered fondly when her ginger-haired best friend's entire world revolved around the next meal. Three times a day Hermione would slip down to the kitchen and arrange a familiar tray for Ron, sometimes adding her own meal and Harry's so the trio could eat together. Hermione knew Ron hated the somber way meals in his family had become since the battle, with his mum holed up in her room and Arthur constantly at work or in the barn outside, tinkering with battery-operated radios and alarm clocks to avoid his inconsolable household. Ginny wailed, taking refuge in the arms of Molly. The brothers were stoic. Gone was the teasing, the experimenting, the squabbling. How Hermione's heart ached for normalcy of sibling bickering she had grown accustomed to over the years.
She placed the book down gingerly on the nightstand, moving aside candlesticks and empty glasses to make room for it. Releasing the breath she hadn't realized she was holding until she heard rummaging from the floor above her, Hermione focused her attention on the sleeping form next to her.
It always amazed Hermione how deeply and quickly Ron was able to fall asleep, but until the fateful Horcrux search Hermione hadn't realized just how long Ron could slumber. And now, in grief, Ron slept most of the time. He snored softly, the sound amusing his girlfriend as she watched his body rise and fall in sync with the noise. When the sun rose each morning, Hermione usually busied herself with chores or helping with breakfast, but without fail would eventually end up in the stuffy upstairs bedroom and sit reading with Ron as he dozed. When he occasionally rose to go the loo or take sips of water, he'd just tumble right back down to sleep the moment he returned to his childhood bed.
Ron lay sprawled out on his back, head turned towards the wall away from the window with one arm resting on his chest as the other hung over the edge of the small wiry bed. Hermione leaned down and pecked him softly on the cheek. When he didn't stir, she raised her hips to dip under the covers of his patchwork quilt and cozy up next to him. Her movement and the creak of the metal bedsprings caused Ron to shift slightly, but his eyes remained closed.
Despite the summer heat, Hermione welcomed the warmth of Ron's body next to hers. How she had longed to do this very thing all those nights during the war when she would tuck into her cold sleeping bag after taking a turn guarding their tent, remembering the feelings of insecurity and longing mingled with physical effects of coldness and fear. Sometimes she wondered what their relationship would have been like if Ron had been spared wearing the locket at all.
Hermione knew that if one were to walk into the room right now (perhaps whoever was still rummaging about in the attic) they might appear to be in a compromising position, but since the early spring days of the war Hermione was beyond caring what anyone assumed about her and Ron. They had only really kissed a handful of times, and subsequent ones from the first smoldering kiss in the hallway at Hogwarts had been more for comfort than anything romantic. Ron kissed Hermione the first time they had to separate to go shower and sleep in different dormitories on the evening after the final battle (though Hermione had later snuck into the boys' room when she couldn't bear being so far from her closest friends), right before apparating back to the Burrow several days later, and one night when Hermione had released a flood of tears after waking from a dreadful nightmare.
Both Harry and Hermione shared Ron's small room. Of course it had only been natural for the Boy Who Lived to continue his tradition of bunking up with his best mate, but for Hermione this was a drastic change from her usual stay in Ginny's room. It hadn't even been a question of where his girlfriend would stay – Ron immediately pulled her upstairs the first day they'd arrived back to the Burrow, a day that Hermione had thanked Merlin countless times upon realizing that the home they all adored hadn't been destroyed. Sure, the Death Eaters had done their due diligence demolishing the Weasley's belongings and left the place in disarray, but the house itself was stable. Hermione couldn't bear to imagine the look on Molly's face if she'd had to endure yet another tragedy.
Since abandoning it in Ottery St. Catchpole, the Burrow had collected a fair amount of dust, grime, and rodents. Hermione had tied up her hair and went to work on the house, scrubbing floors and repairing shattered dishes alongside Fleur and Harry as the Weasley men helped Molly and Ginny upstairs. Ron and George had isolated themselves as well, with Ron fortifying the protection charms around the house (Hermione hadn't the heart nor conviction yet to tell him it was no longer necessary with Voldemort gone) and George took to flying his old Cleansweep in circles around the desolate makeshift pitch outside.
Surprisingly, the house was livable after a few hours of concentrated effort. While much work was left to be done, they could all stay in the house. Bill and Fleur returned to Shell Cottage and brought Percy with them, but Harry and Hermione knew this was their home for now. As the sun set over Devon, a myriad of baskets, meat pies, and neatly tied bags of second-hand clothes and bedding had been delivered to the Burrow by wizarding families in the area. News of the Fallen Fifty had been widely circulated by this point, with Harry's haggard face making the front page of the Prophet.
After covering up the remaining food gifted to the grieving family, Hermione turned to continue her work ridding the cupboard of its beady-eyed inhabitants when she felt Ron's arm twist around her waist. She allowed him to pull her towards the rickety stairs, the summer night air cooling the quiet house. Words were not exchanged as the two trudged in circles up the wooden staircase, passing each Weasley bedroom and pretending there wasn't someone mourning behind each door.
Ron's room had been most thoroughly poked through by Snatchers, much to his displeasure. Chudley Cannon motifs were ripped through, trinkets scattered, and books torn and left haphazard across the floor. Hermione had been careful to help him clear the ruined contents, not wanting to breach his privacy any more than it had already been but also refused to leave his side. A photo of Ron and Harry taken at Diagon Alley had been stolen, the frame lay cracked on his dresser.
"All your letters. Everything from Harry I saved. Those bastards took it all!" Ron had shouted that day as they cleared his room, frustration getting the better of him as he realized what else was missing. All Hermione could do was listen, unsure of what to say . It made her stomach twist to think of someone reading all the letters she'd sent to Ron over the past six summer holidays and intruders rifling through Ron's room for signs of where Harry might be.
Ron's bed had been remade earlier in the day with fresh sheets and a faded patchwork quilt gifted by some well-wisher when they came up for bed. Harry was already dozing soundlessly on a sleeping bag by the door, his black hair wild about his head. Hermione couldn't help but swell with affection for her brave friend, who deserved more peaceful rest than anyone in the whole world for what he'd endured in the last twenty-four hours, no mind his entire life.
Ron's bed was barely large enough for his lanky frame, which he insisted Hermione take until she finally relented. As the days wore on, Hermione began to recognize a pattern: she'd wake early to get ready for the day, prepare breakfast to bring up, and come back to find Ron in the bed, twisted up in the sheets she had slept in, where he would stay until evening to return to his nest of blankets on the floor like Harry. By morning Harry would normally be sniffing out his own food or out by the garden. While Hermione longed to share the bed with Ron at night, she knew that would make Harry uncomfortable; however, that didn't stop her from crawling under the covers with him when she could.
"Morning, darling," Hermione whispered as Ron lazily reached to pull her against his side. The term of endearment caught Hermione off guard as much as Ron the first time she'd called him that, reminding her painfully of her missing parents. A lump formed in her throat whenever she thought of them, recalling how she didn't even know her father's first name because she only ever heard her mother refer to him as "dear" or "darling" until she was in grade school. However, it flowed from her lips as naturally as his name these days when they were alone.
Ron's head turned towards her but eyes remained closed. Hermione chuckled softly and moved her face even closer, eager to soak up intimacy with Ron before Harry or someone else interrupted. Her nose pressed against his jaw and moved her hand to his right shoulder, encapsulating him in a gentle hug.
"Someone's upstairs," she murmured, trying to keep her voice nonchalant. Despite her effort, she felt Ron tense beside her. "It's probably just your dad looking for something, right?"
"Dunno," came his reply, thick from sleep. Hermione knew Ron hated the awkwardness with which everyone seemed to operate in the house, so she imagined his uneasiness was from someone acting out of character. No one ever came upstairs except for the trio. Rarely was anyone in the livingroom, or the kitchen, or out in the garden except for Hermione and Harry and occasionally Ron.
They lay in silence for several moments, both nearly falling asleep again until a loud thump and heavy footsteps caused Ron to flinch and Hermione to sit straight up. They were all still learning to let their guard down a bit more these days, but old habits still got the better of them as both reached for their wands from the nightstand. Handing Ron his, Hermione got up quietly from the bed and made her way to the door. She felt Ron move around her as he came to stand in front, shielding her from whoever was slowly making their way down the latter. No sooner than Hermione had rehearsed the disarming spell in her head than she heard the hacking cough of an aging woman.
Ron paled, turning back to Hermione with wide blue eyes. "Blimey, it's her. We're in for it."
A/N: Cliffhanger! New chapter coming tomorrow or Wednesday. Please follow and tell me what you think so far! Depending on feedback, I may make this a 5-10ish chapter fic.