Well, this was it.
He was probably going to die today. Or at least lose a few limbs. Maybe he would make it out with only a couple of broken bones.
But at least he had her.
She was running beside him, her thick, wild hair flying out behind her, tangling even more in the wind generated by the thousands of spells flying past them. The multicoloured jets of light were being fired in every which direction, crisscrossing between each other and lighting up the dark night sky. It was a miracle she hadn't been hit yet – a miracle that none of them had been hit yet. None of them except...
But he couldn't think about that. He focussed on her instead; there was a hard, determined look in her eyes as they pelted across the grounds, not unlike the one she had had when she had run at him and thrown her arms around him and kissed him, her lips pressing down firmly on his, then softening, deepening the kiss –
Focus, Weasley, Ron chided himself, mentally shaking his head to clear it. They were halfway across the grounds, and the Whomping Willow loomed in the distance, looking as foreboding as it had when he was fourteen and had been dragged into it by the shaggy black dog, whom he had thought was a murderer at the time...
The battle raged around them, jets of light shooting over their heads and between their legs, some passing so close that Ron felt the searing heat of them against his skin. But they were almost there, he could see the waving branches –
The light came out of nowhere, a jet of green that illuminated Hermione's hair as it barreled towards her. He slammed into her, and she shrieked and fell, rolling out of the way as the light flew over his head; he could smell singed hair.
"Thanks," said Hermione breathlessly.
"Of course," he gasped back, offering his hand to her. Harry, seemingly noticing nothing, had beaten them to the tree, and when they caught up to him, both panting heavily, Ron turned back to look at the grounds, the battlefield where so many would die. Where Hermione had almost just died...
He glanced over at her – she was sweaty and ruddy-faced, gasping for breath, her hair a knotted mass of brown, her lips chapped and bleeding.
But she was his. And even if they died today, nothing would change that.