The ground was cold and unyielding, dampness seeping through his trousers. The tiny fire he'd allowed himself did little more than cast shadows, and sleeplessness showed under his eyes. In that moment, Ron Weasley looked like the perfect picture of hopelessness. Perfect except for the whisper of a smile that settled in his ginger stubble. To be perfectly honest, he was the warmest and happiest he had been in weeks. While he kept his vigil, she slept soundly. While he shivered, she lay under a blanket of warmth: his blanket.
At that thought his smile bloomed in full, his heart taking on a more rapid rhythm. In reality it was such a small thing, but right now it was everything. When he'd returned, he'd been so relieved to find them, so thankful to see her, alive and well again, that he'd missed it. Later, when he had noticed that his favorite blanket was missing, he just assumed that she'd hexed it into a pile of charred yarn. He was left with only one thin cover on his narrow bed, but he hadn't dared complain. Hell, he'd have slept beside her cot curled up like Fang on the floor of Hagrid's hut, just to be close to her, to hear the reassuring sound of her sleeping breaths.
So he had endured the chill. In the confines of his bed. In the steeliness of her glare. In the darkness of the watch. Not just endured, thrived.
He was building her an altar of commitment, of love. Every humble task, a pebble at its base. Some days she knocked it down with an angry word or a savage look, but he continued to build it just the same. Progress was slow, but at least it was progress. Last week she'd smiled at him when he brought her a fresh mug of tea. A couple of days later she'd whispered a quick "thank you" when he'd tidied the kitchen after breakfast. It didn't always happen, and sometimes, it pained him to realize, she looked rather cross with herself after she'd done it. Regardless, there were times he could almost imagine that nothing had changed, that he had never left. That they were still the Ron and Hermione that had danced together, had fallen asleep holding hands, had quieted each other's fears.
No. He shook his head determinedly. They were not the same. He HAD left. For weeks, while he was away, grief and regret had gnawed at him as caustically as that damned horcrux. In those moments he couldn't even dream of a way back to her physically, let alone emotionally. When he'd heard her voice, when that tiny ball of light passed into his heart, it filled him with the truth: they would never be the same, because he would never be the same. All the careless mistakes, the childish thoughtlessness, all of that was over. He would show her, not with words, which weren't really his specialty, but with actions.
Any endeavor that he could find became another piece of the shrine: the small smooth pebbles of freshening the towels in the loo and washing the tea kettle, the heavier stones of lengthening his turn at the watch. He wished for more, some impressive cornerstone that would cement the foundation, something not easily overturned.
It was his secret pride. Giving himself to her, bit by bit. Not that he wouldn't give her everything, but he knew it was too soon. She would be distrustful of a grand gesture, so he just kept on, patiently giving, expecting nothing, not even acceptance of the gifts, in return. Time has a way of smoothing over the sharpest of edges, so he patiently busied himself with service.
Then, that very morning, when he returned from gathering more firewood, he found her bed empty and Harry headed out to get some air. Something he did quite a bit lately, usually offering a knowing smile before he left.
"You headed out?"
"Yeah, just need to stretch a little, check the wards."
"Alright...see you in a tic."
"Not it a hurry, nothing else to do is there?" Harry flashed him that look, a very Dumbledore look if he didn't know any better.
"True, mate, true," he hesitated before he asked, "Is Hermione up?" what a dumb question, of course she's up you git, her bed is emptier than Goyle's bookshelf.
Harry, having the decency not to smirk as he left, replied, "She's in the shower," but he added loudly from the safety of the other side, "If you need her."
Wanker. If he needed her? That was such an absurd question that he barked a laugh before he could stop himself. He needed her in every way imaginable. He needed her friendship and her bravery and her brilliant mind and her loyal heart. As he focused on the faint sound of the water running, he felt his palms go sweaty. He did not need to think about her like that: standing beneath the warm shower spray, washing her hair, leaning back to rinse the soap from her…
Stop! Since his return he'd felt uncomfortable about imagining her, imaging the thousand brilliant ways they could be closer. It seemed so shallow considering how he'd fucked things up. He would never be able to deny that he desired her, but for now he couldn't risk having her think that was the main reason he wanted her forgiveness. So instead of indulging in a fantasy, he looked around to see if there were any mundane chore he might spare her from. Seeing her unmade cot again, he decided to be of service.
As he drew closer, he hesitated slightly, was this too intimate? How would she react when she came out of the loo? Deciding that it was a risk worth taking, he stepped closer and began to tidy her bed.
That's when he saw it, buried beneath her own: his blanket. This whole time? She'd not only kept it, but she used it? The tips of his ears began to flush, suddenly he felt a little faint. All he could think of was how it was almost like he was lying with her. He knew it was a dangerous mental path to wander down, but he couldn't stop himself.
Before he even realized what he was doing, he was sitting on the cot, pulling the blanket up to his face. At first he could only register her scent: the almond of her shampoo, the chocolate and coffee of old books, the earthiness of tea. He breathed it in, a drowning man finding the surface. But as he lingered, something else began to emerge: it was the smell of home, of the Burrow, he guessed it was also his smell. He reckoned there was a time that he would have felt ridiculous, sniffing a blanket like a nutter, but now he was just overcome at how the smell of them: of him and her together, was just...perfect.
He was all but lost in his reverie when he heard the shower stop. Now he had a dilemma. Should he make the bed as he'd originally planned? Then she would know that he knew. Should he want that? Would it force them into a conversation? Was he ready for that conversation? What if it made her angry? What if she threw it back at him? No, he couldn't risk that, not yet.
With utmost speed and stealth, in his mind anyway, Ron arranged the bed as he had found it. By the time Hermione appeared again, he was tucked in the kitchen with a singing kettle. Even his too-cheery "Morning!" didn't raise suspicion.
Joy had bubbled over inside him the rest of that day, he was giddy with it, and it had been contagious. He and Harry had even talked Hermione into telling them the muggle story of Cinderella. She had rolled her eyes at them when they both seemed uncomprehending of the story's charm. What kind of witch gives you a dress that only lasts 'till midnight? If those barmy glass shoes were made to fit so perfect, why'd one of'em come off? Talking mice? Don't think I'd trust any of those! Cinderella? Still sounds like a bloody disease if you ask me!
It seemed so much like a scene out of third year that for a moment they all dissolved into giggles. He thought his heart might burst from seeing her cheeks bunched in happiness. He'd always been proud of his ability to make her laugh, but now it seemed like an even bigger accomplishment. A splinter of guilt pricked at him when he thought about all those weeks she'd gone without smiling because he wasn't there. Harry was a great friend, but rubbish at making people laugh. Maybe Harry had been right, maybe that's why the horcrux fought so hard to make him leave, they really did need him.
Eventually they'd left him to the first watch, but he'd stretched it into the second, almost to the third before the tent opened behind him. Bracing himself for another Potter-death-glare, Ron held his hands up in mock-surrender,
"Alright, I was coming to get you, mate! Just lost track of time."
"Really? Why do I doubt that?" the husky voice that answered was most certainly not Harry's.
Ron turned around slowly, mentally preparing to see anger on her face, "Sorry, I," the softness in her features took his breath away, there was no sharp diatribe forming on her tongue, there was no icy glare, only Hermione.
She came closer then, sitting beside him gently. She didn't touch him, but her words were warm and kind, "I know what you're doing, Ron."
The way she said his name made him ache. He didn't know how to respond; he would never insult her with a lie, but the truth was so heavy that he feared putting it down would mean never being strong enough to pick it up again.
"You...you have to stop," she wasn't looking at him, and her voice barely a whisper.
He took in a quick breath, the cold air adding to the ache in his chest, "No."
It was the first time since his return that he'd dared to disagree with her, and she turned to him with an expression of disbelief, "No?"
Their eyes locked, and a tiny part of him wanted to throw himself at her feet, to promise he'd do, or not do, whatever it was she wanted. But that wasn't the kind of man she deserved, the kind of man he needed to be.
Tears were clinging to her lashes, "Why?" She searched his face like it were an especially tricky bit of text.
"Think you know why."
"It's okay now...I'm not completely...over it, but you don't have to keep trying to make it up to...us," her voice caught on the last word and it gave her away. That was her fear, the defensive shield she'd placed around her heart.
"No...you, Hermione," courageously he brushed a tear from her cheek with the rough pad of his thumb, "it's all for you."
He could feel her tremble, "Why?"
"'Cause it's what you deserve."
"But I don't want you doing anything you don't want to do," she looked down nervously, and when his eyes followed hers, he noticed her fingers ever so close to his.
He reached across those few critical inches and tenderly grasped her hand, "This IS what I want...it's important to me that you know that."
"Ok, but you can't keep taking the entire watch and then trying to do everything else too," she squeezed his hand to emphasize her words, "you'll wear yourself out, and we need you."
"We?" He'd never known that so many questions could be contained in one small word,
"Yes, we," her words threatened to topple all his progress, but he willed himself to listen, "but, more importantly I...I need you."
His heart swelled with joy, with pride, with love. He felt invisible: he could stay up all night, defeat dark wizards all day, and still be able to complete any task she might give him.
"I need you too, always bloody have," the tears in his eyes seemed to contradict his enormous smile, but she understood all too well the paradoxical emotions of loving your best friend.
"Does that mean I can convince you to go to bed," they both blushed at her choice of words, "and let me finish the watch?"
"How about I convince you both to go back to bed, it's my turn anyway." Harry's knack for sudden appearances made Ron curse internally.
"Best idea you've had in months," she stood to go, but not before giving Ron's hand a reassuring squeeze.
"Thanks mate," Ron followed after her, not quite wanting their conversation to end, but suddenly feeling the effects of his physical and emotional overexertion.
He found her in the middle of the tent, looking suddenly very torn, like she too wanted to say more, but was afraid to say too much, "Sleep well, Ron."
"You too...guess I'll go change for bed...see you in the morning." He wanted so badly to hug her, but he wouldn't allow himself to make that first move.
"See you then," making her way over to her cot she removed the coat that apparently had been the only thing she'd put on over her pyjamas when she came outside.
By the time he emerged from the loo she was already snoring softly. He began to evaluate the day: it had been a very good one indeed: his blanket, the laughter, the confessions...he knew they weren't exactly the confessions he ultimately wanted to exchange, but for now, it was a wonderful start. He carried a jar of her blue flames over to his bed, ready to settle in for a few hours rest. He stopped short: there on his bunk was second blanket, her blanket to be precise. Sure enough, when he glanced over to her sleeping form he could see his blanket wrapped around her. After all the little gestures he'd made, this one from her meant more than a vault full of gold. As he drifted off to sleep in the blue-black cold of the morning, he relished the comforting warmth of her scent and the reassuring knowledge that he was not building the altar alone.