Yes. It's been overdone. It's sickening. But I had to do it! I had to! Please forgive me if this is similar to anyone else's story, but to my knowledge, I've pulled this from the back of my own head. And of course, J.K. Rowling owns all. :)
He woke with a sudden start from a surprisingly deep sleep. Ron wondered briefly at this—exhaustion—that had taken over him since arriving at his brother and sister-in-law's house—a feeling that left him crumpled like a deflated balloon. This must be what Harry feels like, he thought, every time he wakes up from one of those thrashing nightmares… Merlin…
Shuddering away the shadow of harsh high-pitched and sickening laughter that still lingered from the dream that woke him, he slid the back of his hand across his damp forehead. Sighing slightly, Ron kicked at the knotted sheets until his ungainly legs were free, swiveled so that his toes grazed the chill floor, and let his head tip forward into his splayed hands.
This won't do… this is the third time tonight—she's fine—he sighed more resignedly and stood on wobbly feet, giving himself a moment for the blood to rush through his body. When the light-headedness faded, he stalled a bit more by popping a few joints in his lower back, and after finally deciding he couldn't keep doing this forever, he shuffled quietly from the little, thoughtfully decorated guest room.
There she was, still as death, but alive and softly breathing. How he found himself at her side again baffled him as he reached out a tentative finger towards her frizz of hair. She shifted. He froze.
And when her eyes fluttered a bit, Ron guessed she would roll on her side like she did the last two times and drift back off, but this time she didn't.
"Ron?" It was a whisper, but it was entirely too loud for him. The ocean outside could have swallowed him up in a churning whirlpool and he would've felt more comfortable than in this quiet room with its light airy curtains.
"Hermione…." When there was no more said for a few seconds, he felt he had to say it again, "Hermione…." She looked at him tiredly, and he felt suddenly and deeply sorry for coming here and disturbing the small precious rest she deserved while she had any chance of rest left.
"Well, er, hello then," she almost smiled, but Ron could see that the exhaustion was gripping her too, and he felt heat and anger flood his face.
Ron glanced at the curtains, then at the floor, and then fixed his eyes somewhere between Hermione's shoulder and her ear, "Er… hello. I… I just came to, er, check and see if you… needed anything," he shifted backwards, "but you were sleeping and now I should let you get some re—"
"Wait!" Hermione reached out surprisingly quickly, and he felt light fingers brush his retreating wrist. "I know you've been here more than once—I mean, I was dreaming before, I think, but it makes sense now—if you can't sleep, you don't suppose you…"
Ron raised a questioning eyebrow as a rarely seen, flushed Hermione appeared before him. Her eyes slid to the floor and as if she'd realized her voice had been growing louder, she whispered tentatively, "They've been awful dreams, and if you could please just… talk to me for a bit, but only if you can't sleep—"
Instead of answering her, Ron took a glance at the lightly snoring, quilted lump that was Luna Lovegood, and stooped towards his—friend? No, not merely that, not anymore—and with proffered hand, finally met Hermione's gaze with his own. She understood. Just like fifth year, after all those quiet patrols in the corridors…
Soon, Ron was guiding a barefoot and hobbling Hermione across damp, soft turf towards the back of the small cottage. Niggling at the back of his mind was a gruesome image of Moody's swiveling eye and harsh reprimands about being careless in a time of open war, but ultimately deciding the sea air could only help Hermione, he protectively tightened his supporting arm about her waist. He felt her give a sharp breath, and the fingers at his back dug through the worn material of his shirt. Immediately he relaxed his arm again, berating himself for awakening some of the pain she'd absorbed.
"Wherever's fine, Ron, I don't mind," still she whispered, and Ron could hear health in her voice. Ron almost smirked, and a comment about how it was about time she let him make a decision for once almost escaped his mouth, but after snatching a glance of the top of her head, he let it dissolve in his throat. Hermione was here, with him, and neither was taking a go at each other. The moment was almost sacred.
Coming to a slow halt, Ron gently helped Hermione shift her weight and let her grasp his hands as he lowered her to the ground. Once she was settled, he followed, stretching his long legs far in front of him and leaning back on his scarred and freckled arms, letting the slight breeze wash over him.
Hermione must have been looking at his exposed insecurities, for she next voiced aloud, "Now I must finally match you two…" Ron watched helplessly as she self-consciously slid her fingers lightly over the uneven gashes in her arms. "I guess it serves me right—setting those canaries on you—" Was Hermione trying to make light of this!?
Hermione looked up with the ghost of a smile on her face, but it was gone soon after she witnessed the foul look upon Ron's features. "I deserved that," he mumbled darkly, "but you didn't deserve those—those—" Ron's hand was drawn towards her raw elbow, and his thumb hardly brushed over the smallest of her scrapes. He choked out, "those awful—that foul woman—I—I can't—"
"Ron! Ron," she watched his shaking arms as he brought his legs inwards and dropped his head to his knees. Hermione reached out a hand towards his and held it firmly, "It's okay, we're safe here, and—"
"I should never've left you! And Harry… I'm sorry, Hermione, I'm sorrier than I've ever been and I'll never be able to make that up to you—"
"Ron…" she kept his hand in her own and reached up with her other to grasp his shoulder, "It's over, I'm not mad anymore, even though I should be, but everything's fine. You saved me from that evil woman, and that was more than enough to—"
"You don't understand Hermione! You don't—" Ron's head left the sanctuary of his knees so that he could fix his strained eyes on hers.
She squeezed his shoulder in an authoritative way, and in a brisker tone, cut across him, "Oh, I don't, do I?" He stuttered and fell silent. I know, now…. He knew that she knew. He saw it plainly in her pale face. And finally, after all these years, they were on the same plateau of understanding.
"Hermione, I… you…" but the words fell from his mind when she continued to look at him. It was the same look she always gave him, quiet but stern…. Her facial expression was the same, but it appeared new to him as if he were another person who had rather awkwardly met her for the first time five minutes previously. He felt oddly vulnerable, and unbidden came into his mind an image of Fred and George strolling up from the beach, pointing and laughing at how his ears looked like a light house beacon.
Hermione's eyes drifted away towards the churning and rumbling sea after a while, and Ron was painfully aware of her thin, scraped, fingers clutching his. "Thank you, Ron. You've saved our lives… you saved my life.… I suppose I won't have a proper reason to stay mad at you for long ever again…"
He sighed dramatically, and she let out a half-laugh, both knowing the same thing—Hermione would always find a reason to give Ron a lecture. The waves, far below, were steadily dragging across the beach, pulling the warm sounds away with them towards the darkness.
Ron cleared his throat a bit and shifted his weight a few centimeters closer to her huddled form. "You know, if Dumbledore—"
"Don't you start!" Her tone was lighter, like it used to be before all this destiny stuff started. Hermione began to berate him, like her old self again, about how they'd sifted through this can of worms a billion times too many. Ron persisted, digging the Put-Outer from the depths of his pajama pocket with his free hand. Her mouth formed a small 'o' and she drifted quiet again.
"No, I meant, really, you have to admit that it is a useful gift after all—"
Hermione sobered a bit, and so did Ron after noticing her expression. "It did bring you back to… to us…. But Ron, it was you who—"
"I know, Hermione, I know." He pulled the hand he was still holding upwards gently, and placed the Put-Outer into her palm. "There still may be some light in it—go on, try it."
Hesitating a bit, Hermione looked up at Ron. He gave her a small smile, and she looked back down at the delicate object in her hand. Her thumb slid across the tiny wheel, and an orb of warm yellow light blossomed into the air above them.
He felt her breathe in deeply at his side, and an urge to put his arm around her seized him. Ron looked at Hermione's face, tilted up in awe at the softly glowing ball of light, and he realized that this would be the only chance he had for what might be forever. What did it matter now if she loved him in the painfully smoldering way he loved her? She was here, and he was beside her, freely able to watch the light dance across her upturned face.
"What is it, Ron?" He blinked and felt her questioning eyes bore into his.
"I… don't know… everything." She nodded in agreement, and he slipped his arm behind her warm back as she continued to flip the Put-Outer's switch on… off… on… off… in the same way he once did inside their lonely tent. Hermione leaned into his shoulder, and they sat there on the grass for a while, watching her holding Ron's heart in her fingers.