Author's Note: If there was a dance scene in Deathly Hallows, it should have been THIS one…
The sound of the tent being opened was a godsend to Hermione. She turned around to see Harry, bundled up in all of his sweaters and carrying a blanket with him. Hermione hadn't remembered an October this cold, but maybe that was because she spent most of her Octobers indoors. She had never been this cold in her life. The flames she made in empty jam jars could only do so much; they warmed your hands and your face if you held them close enough, but it seemed as though the cold had seeped inside of her, somewhere those blue flames couldn't reach. She longed for a hot shower, but the plumbing in the tent's bathroom was probably older than she was, and the water was never completely clear, which gave her the distinct feeling that she wasn't entirely clean when she came out of the shower.
"My turn," Harry said in a resigned sort of voice, and Hermione felt a tiny sliver of empathy for him. But seeing as it had been she sitting out here moments ago, and she who would take Ron's place in the morning, the sympathy only stretched so far. She nodded and reached around her neck to give him the locket. They had decided that wearing it while on watch was probably the best idea; there wasn't anyone to snap at or bicker with. Harry took it warily and put it around his neck, taking Hermione's spot on the blanket outside the tent. Hermione patted him on the shoulder through a gloved hand.
Compared to where she had just been, the inside of the tent felt gloriously warm. She shed her jacket and her second sweater, throwing both on her bed and walking further away from the mouth of the tent, which always leaked cold air. She felt the weight of the Horcrux she had just given Harry leave her chest; she never noticed how heavy it rested on her until she gave it away.
Ron had his back to her when she walked in, and she stopped moving, watching him silently. Even if she wanted to speak she wouldn't have been able to; she was frozen where she was. All of his possessions were on his bed, and he was throwing things at random into the rucksack in his hands. He shoved in his clothes and his shoes and a few of his books. He picked his chess set up from his bedside table and threw that into the rucksack as well. Hermione watched as Ron pulled a shirt out of the pile on his bed and her heart fluttered as she realized it was one of hers. Ron paused, eying the thing in his hands, and then put it gently into the bag with an inordinate amount of care, where it was soon followed by several roughly tossed in shirts. He was muttering to himself under his breath, something Hermione could not hear. When his bed was empty and his rucksack was full, he paused for a moment, bowing his head as if mourning for something. She saw his breath hitch across his back, and she wondered if he was crying. Hermione was still a few feet behind him, watching him fearfully.
When he was done with his silent vigil, he spun around and blinked as he saw her, looking both scared and determined, yet resignedly so. He put the rucksack, which he had slung over his shoulder, onto the ground next to him. Hermione was watching him, eyes wide, her throat dry. She was trying to convince herself that she had not seen what she had just witnessed, that what he was doing was in her mind; she was jumping to conclusions.
"How long have you been there?" he asked her evenly, his voice low, yet determined. His eyes were dark and he had shadows underneath them. He looked so tired. So worn. At first, he had only looked like that when he was wearing the locket, but now his eyes were always hollow, his voice always tired.
"Long enough to know what you're doing," she countered, her voice just as flat as his. She didn't know what to say, what to do. She had to stop him, she knew this, yet her heart was beating a million paces a second; ruin this, and she'd lose him.
Ron sighed, and picked up his rucksack again. "Hermione," he said, and there was sadness in his voice now. Sadness which gave Hermione hope. If he was regretful, then she still had a chance.
"Why did you pack your things, Ron?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Ron didn't say anything, but stood there statue-still, the bag still on his back. He gave her a challenging stare, as if she were an obstacle, something to pass around before leaving. A hindrance. With half a sob, she crossed the space between them and took the bag off of his back, opening it and emptying it all over the floor around them. Shirts and trousers and shoes and books toppled out. Hermione looked at the mess at her feet, then up at him. "Why did you pack your things, Ron?" she asked again, tears running down her face.
Ron swallowed. "I can't," he said, his voice cracking. Hermione looked up at him through her tears. She was overwhelmed with the boy standing in front of her; he was so different, so changed, and no matter what she did, there wasn't anything she could do about it. Se felt helpless, she didn't know this Ron. She didn't know how to take care of him or make him better. She didn't know how to get the old Ron back, the Ron she knew.
She sat down on his bed, covering her face with her hands and crying into them. She felt, a few moments later, the bed sink a little as Ron sat down next to her. He didn't put his arm around her; he couldn't comfort her after being the object of her tears. She missed his arm around her shoulder.
"Don't leave," she said into her hands, looking up and giving him a long, searching look. Ron seemed to slump, shrinking several inches as he looked at his possessions strewn across the tent floor. "Please," she whispered, and she heard as Ron's breath grew uneven too.
They sat in silence, side by side on his bed. They were both looking at the ground in front of him, as if it were homage to a terrible battle. Hermione thought she should clean it up, but could not move at the same time. She knew Ron wouldn't leave – not tonight – for if he were, he would have gone already. He wouldn't have sat here with her.
"Do you remember," she asked softly, after sitting in silence for half an hour. "When things were easy?" she asked.
Ron thought for a moment. "No," he said honestly. And Hermione nodded, smiling sadly. Things had never been easy, and it seemed to her – from where she was sitting right now – as though things would never be easy. She hated it, she hated being thrown into this.
"Nor can I," she said, answering her own question, confirming Ron's. They seeped back into silence once more, and Hermione wished they could keep on talking. Tonight, the silence was cold.
"The wedding," Ron said suddenly, and Hermione looked at him. He was looking back at her. "At least for a little while, things were easy there," he said, clarifying. "For about four hours, everything was normal and people weren't dead or dying or disappearing or in immediate danger. For about four hours, everything was good," he said, staring down at his hands.
Hermione brought her knees to her chin, thinking. "Yes," she said. "I suppose that's what normal feels like," she mused, resting her chin on her knees and looking around her. "I wish we could be in that tent," she told Ron. "I wish we could be in that tent and have everything normal right now. I hate this tent, I hate what it did to us. I hate that you packed your things, that you're leaving me alone in this tent."
Ron looked visibly shocked and hurt, though he recovered somewhat. She watched as he furrowed his brow and thought for a moment, then got off the bed. For a terrifying second, Hermione was scared that she had said the wrong thing, and he was leaving after all. She watched as he picked up the radio, which had made permanent residence on the kitchen table, where they all could hear it, and brought it over to the chair next to his bed. She watched as he crouched down and fiddled with a dial, muttering under his breath again. He finally came to a station that wasn't static. Tinny, crackling music filled the tent; it was weak and quiet, but it was music. Hermione thought it was one of the most beautiful things she had heard in a long time. She watched Ron as he stood up, facing her.
"What are you doing?" she asked him warily, hugging her legs close to her body. She felt drained. The clothes on the floor were making her feel tired and weary. The Ron standing in front of her, the one she couldn't fix, the one who packed, was making her tired.
Ron extended a hand to her. "What if that tent – what if the wedding – was right now, here," he asked uncertainly, and Hermione raised her eyes to look into his. She almost smiled. Maybe he was there, the Ron she knew. Maybe there was a way to get him back.
"Okay," she said slowly, and she got off the bed, taking Ron's hand in hers. Hesitantly, he put one hard on her back, and she put hers on his shoulder.
It was strange at first, and uncomfortable. They were awkward with each other, standing much too far apart, both determinedly not looking at one another. But the tinny song went on, and they took a step closer. Hermione rested her head on his chest; his shoulder was too high up, and he brought her in his arms. At some point, she had started crying again.
There was no normal, there was no easy. The tent they were standing in remained that same tent. They were not at the Burrow, she wasn't wearing her dress. She wasn't happy, and nor was he. The dance floor was his clothes, clothes he had packed.
They stood there, revolving around in a tight circle, treading on the clothes Hermione had spilled out of his bag. The song carried on, slower than anything they had danced to at the wedding. Hermione cried into Ron's shirt as they danced.
Hermione closed her eyes, trying to picture the warm summer breeze on her face, trying to picture Ron's eyes, they way they shone when he was happy or when he looked at her. She tried to picture herself laughing. She tried to picture happiness. And for a moment, the tent was gone, the two of them had left it and everything was beautifully simple.
When the song ended, they broke apart, Hermione's eyes still filled with tears. The normal was gone, they were back in the tent they had never truly left, and Ron was looking down at the clothes Hermione had taken out of his bag. He looked regretful, as though he were wishing he hadn't talked to her and had left long ago. His eyes weren't shining and she wasn't laughing. She felt small in this darkness, in their reality.
She stood on her toes and kissed him softly on the cheek. He froze, looking down at her with a surprised expression. Tears ran down her face, leaking out of the corners of her eyes.
"Don't leave," she told him. "Please, don't leave."
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