A/N: Wishing the happiest of birthdays to my wonderful friend AzaleaBlue! Please accept this little slice of Shell Cottage angst as a token of appreciation for your awesome self! Now, if we could just find a way to live on the same continent… xx
Somehow the room felt smaller now that Luna had left. Hermione was alone, just the four walls of the smallest bedroom in the cottage closing in around her as she waited for dawn to come. Nobody was there, now, to offer a reassuring smile when she woke up drenched in sweat, nobody to remind her that the world still existed, that she and her friends were still alive and breathing and, for the time being, safe. For all she knew in her solitude, the crashing waves outside could have been her blood rushing in her ears, adrenaline fighting off a curse; the cool breeze from the cracked window could well have been the chill of a marble floor against her back.
And Hermione was independent, but that didn't mean she wanted to be alone. They were safe here. She knew they were safe here, but a tiny voice in the back of her head constantly whispered what if, and some nights it was louder than others.
It was screaming tonight.
Before logic and reason and rationale could prevail, she slid out of the bed, tiptoeing across the salt-bleached wood floors. A whispered spell kept the door hinges from creaking as she crept from the room, her wand gripped tightly in her fist, just in case. In bare feet, it wasn't difficult to descend the stairs undetected, and as she turned the corner, she came upon the sitting room, flooded with light from the glow of the full moon. Stretched out on the sofa, holding Draco's hawthorn wand against his chest, was Harry, his glasses askew on his face. On the floor beside him, in a lumpy blue sleeping bag, was-
Hermione's heart leapt into her throat.
Ron was supposed to be in that sleeping bag, supposed to be ranged out on his stomach, his arms hugging the pillow the way she'd seen him sleep countless times over the past year, his hair a fiery mess. But it was empty, lying open as though taunting her.
We're safe, she insisted to herself, though admittedly, her implicit trust in her own instincts had faltered lately. He's safe. He's probably just gone to the loo.
But the cottage was quiet: no running water or whining hinges or groaning floorboards punctuated the dense silence. Every one of its occupants - aside from Hermione - who now felt the sharp alertness that stemmed from fear - was fast asleep. She scurried into the sitting room, not minding now that her feet pounded on the floor, and was on the point of waking Harry when, through the window, she caught sight of a lone figure outside in the garden. Even in the semi-darkness, she knew his silhouette like she knew the back of her own hand.
There was no other option now. Hermione snuck out the back door, grass cool and dewy under her toes as she made her way to him. Every emotion, every thought, every fear came tumbling out of her before she had a chance to think.
"What," she hissed as his eyes snapped up to her, "are you doing out here?!"
Ron seemed to have momentarily displaced his own voice. "Oh - hey-"
"We're not supposed to leave the bounds of the charm - it's too dangerous-"
"I haven't," he assured her, "they go all the way to that cliff, see?" He gestured some several yards away, where the earth broke, waves lapping against its craggy shore.
"Really?"
"Really." He reached up, his cool palm slipping against hers, giving her arm a gentle tug to invite her to sit. "I promise."
With a shuddering breath, Hermione dropped down beside him. April in Cornwall had proven perpetually chilly, a dampness permeating her bones, and she found herself inching closer to him.
"You scared me to death," she admitted, blades of grass between her legs blurring in her tearful gaze. "I - I came to find you and - and you weren't there-"
"I'm sorry," he said, simultaneously forceful and gentle. "I'm so sorry, I'm here now, wh - what's wrong?"
"It's nothing," she said, though the roughness in her voice betrayed her. "Just another nightmare."
Cautiously, Ron shifted his weight toward her, his forearm draping over her back. He gave her upper arm a little squeeze through the gauzy material of her pajama top, and she leaned into him, melting into his side.
"What happened?" His voice fell soft against her ear. "Are you all right?"
"No."
"Please tell me what's wrong," he implored her, "just tell me, and I'll do anything I can. You know I'll do anything I can for you."
Hermione lifted her face toward his. As she watched him, his shaggy, overlong hair awash with silver in the moonlight, she found herself struck by the simplicity of it. He was just Ron, now. When she looked at him, she didn't see someone Disapparating in the rain. She saw someone who had jumped at the chance to give his life for hers, who had hardly left her side since they had arrived at Shell Cottage, who had daubed dittany onto her wounds and brought her fresh clothes to wear, then turned around so she could change. And it wasn't that he had become a new person: this was who he had always been. He'd just been lost for a bit there, but he had found his way back.
"It was just a bad dream," she said, reminding herself as much as him. "I know it was just a bad dream, but I - I need you, and-"
"And I'm here." The hand of his that cupped her upper arm trembled as he reassuringly rubbed her skin. "I'm right here."
"I keep having dreams where I die," she confessed. "I dream every night that… that they hand me over to Greyback… and I die… and I die with, with you thinking-"
She broke off, hiccuping around a stifled sob. The mere thought of what could have been made every inch of her body, save for the parts that were touching him, go cold.
"Thinking what?"
"Thinking that I hate you." The words hung heavy in the air. "Because I don't, I never have, I - I never could - it was just hard, sometimes, to be around you-"
"It's all right," he said softly, hugging her into his side. "You had every right to - to feel how you felt - to hate me, if that was how you felt-"
"But I don't, that's what I'm telling you - I miss you, Ron," she said, turning so that her knees slanted over his thigh, "I miss you so much. I didn't miss you until you you came back."
Tears dribbled down the slope of her cheeks at the revelation. They had spent three icy winter months in the tent together, and even in the times when he was asleep in a bunk bed mere feet away, or standing too close when trying to help her prepare a meal, he may well have been miles away. She had thought it would protect her, safeguard her heart, but it had only broken it more.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said, not for the first time since his triumphant return. "I'm never going to hurt you again. As long as I'm around, I won't let anything happen to you, I'd die before I let it happen. I know you don't trust me and I don't blame you-"
"But I do." Shamelessly she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. "I do trust you, the whole time - the whole time at the Manor, I could hear you, and I just knew you'd get me out, I knew you'd save me - and you did-" She gave a shaky sigh. "And tonight I dreamed that you weren't there-"
"I will always be there."
With a bit of a jerky nod and a sniffle, Hermione tipped toward him until her head landed on his shoulder. His hand drifted up her arm, brushing her shoulder before settling against her hair, fingertips stroking her coarse, bushy locks. Closing her eyes, she let herself sink into him, listening to the waves lapping at the sand and Ron's careful breaths. The tension was slowly ebbing from her muscles, as if his mere presence had a calming, balancing effect on her. The rapidfire barrage of thoughts, memories, fears, plans, it had slowed somewhat, soothed by the gentleness of his fingers in her hair, the solid warmth of his body beside her.
She needed him. She knew it now, just like she had known it for years, and she decided, as they sat together, that that was okay.
With a shiver, she pressed herself closer into him until her face was almost against his neck. He seemed to radiate warmth, even in the crisp, salty breeze, even as the faintest misty drizzle set in over them.
"You all right?" asked Ron. He had minuscule drops of water clinging to his eyelashes. "You cold?"
"Maybe a bit."
"Let's go in, then," he said. "Couldn't hurt to try to sleep."
Reluctantly, Hermione prised herself away from Ron and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. As they stepped back in the direction of the little cottage, she tightened her grip on his hand, partly to steady herself on the uneven ground - her muscles, occasionally, still felt feeble with the aftereffects of the torture - but mostly because she couldn't stand to feel like he might be slipping away again, even for a second.
Harry didn't even stir when they re-entered the sitting room, though his snores were garbled, syncopated. As they passed by the lumpy blue sleeping bag, Hermione kept walking, resolute, only to find herself stopped in her tracks. Still clutching her hand, Ron had paused, looking torn.
"Come with me," she whispered, giving a tug on his arm.
He didn't hesitate, but rather, allowed himself to be led up the staircase, to the landing of the only room with its door left ajar. Before Hermione could cross the threshold, she found herself folded into his arms, her cheek against his chest. It was the safest, most familiar place, and she leaned into him, let all her weight fall against him, so that he supported her completely.
"I…" Hermione looked up at him, her arms still around his slim waist. "I'm by myself in there - if you want to stay-"
"You really want me to?"
Meeting his gaze, she nodded. "Yes."
She pulled him into the room, where her small twin bed stood unmade against one wall, and closed the door behind them. They had lost use for words now: Hermione needed not invite him under the blankets with her, he simply knew to nestle himself behind her, an arm looped securely over her waist. After a few seconds, she felt sharp breaths on the side of her neck, and realized he was blowing on her.
"Sorry," he said quietly, a smile apparent in his voice. "Your hair-"
"Oh." Hermione reached back to twist her hair, which had only grown frizzier in the misting rain outside, up and away from his face. "Is that better?"
"Perfect."
And with the tip of Ron's nose against the back of her neck, Hermione felt herself slip into sleep.