Unsurprisingly, she finds him in the Gryffindor Common Room. After all, her own feet, throbbing with the dull but satisfying ache that accompanies the removal of a tremendous burden—such as the onus of saving the Wizarding world at 18—had automatically led her there as well. He is sitting on the couch, back unnaturally straight, staring ahead into the fire, which is bouncing merrily in the fireplace, as if oblivious to the despair held within his penetrating gaze.

He is so focused on his grief, or so out of focus because of it, that he does not notice her soft steps indenting the carpet as she walks gently over to him. To her, he looks numb, like his soul has been shot up with her parents' dental Novocain and everything that is Ron has frozen within his veins. Slowly, she sits down beside him, exuding the guardedness of one approaching a wild beast that could lash out at any moment. This Ron may as well be such a foreign creature—one she doesn't know how to handle. She has never seen him so vulnerable before. So broken.

And it scares her, because she knows it is her responsibility to fix him. She fears failure, now more than ever. This fear consumes her, penetrating every pore of her body until she is terrified to breathe, less it disturb Ron in some way. But then, as her eyes roam over the man beside her, one whose red hair, freckles and lanky build warm her heart with their familiarity, she remembers him to be the one who welcomed her into a family of nine when she erased her own from existence. The one who held her in his arms at Shell Cottage and whispered how important she was to everyone—to him—dispelling the notion that the slit across her throat branded her as a worthless Mudblood. The knowledge that her abrasive, tactless Ron is capable of tenderness makes love swell within her chest and spread like wildfire throughout her body, burning away all fear in its path. Sparked with the instinctual confidence of love's assurance, she raises an open palm and presses it to his cheek, turning his face from the fireplace, forcing him to finally acknowledge her presence.

At her touch, he stirs. He lightly brings his own hand up to meet hers, his eyes conveying uncertainty.

"Hey," she whispers, trying to smile reassuringly.

"Hey," he croaks back, throat clogged with unshed tears.

Silence falls for a few long moments until she clears her throat and advises him, warily at first, but then with increasing momentum as she settles comfortably into her perfected bossy attitude, "You can cry, you know. I mean, if you need to. Or even if you just want to. It can be really cathartic. I should know. Really Ronald, it isn't healthy to keep everything bottled-up inside. Do you remember Harry during our 5th year? He was like a boiling teakettle and you didn't know when the shrieking whistle was going to blow! That's what happens when…"

Suddenly she is shocked from rambling into silence when he shouts with irritation, "Shut up, will you! I'm not going to bloody cry!"

In the same moment, a few tears manage to trickle down his face against his will. He is so overcome with both rage and grief that he begins to shake violently.

Undeterred by his harsh tone and compelled into action by his fragility, she wraps both her arms around him as tightly as she can, as though fearful he would blow over without her support. She isn't so sure that isn't the case. She buries her face into his neck, and can't help but lament his current state as a compassionate, "Oh, Ron," escapes her lips. Thankfully her vice grip hold has managed to calm him slightly, and she starts rubbing small circles into his back to soothe him further. Slowly he starts to calm down, his breaths becoming more even, and he collapses into her embrace.

"I don't want to cry. I don't want to be sad. I need to be angry," he mutters resignedly.

She stills, her hands stopping their path along his back. She then grabs him by his shoulders and pushes him back slightly, giving her a clear view of his face. She raises an eyebrow and reiterates his word in confusion.

"Angry?"

Suddenly his eyes, so dull until now, light up with unexpected fervor.

"Yeah," he repeats firmly, "angry!"

"There are so many things to be angry about. Someone killed Fred. And Remus. And Tonks. And Collin. Greyback would have killed Lavender, too, if you hadn't stopped him!"

At the mention of Fenrir Greyback, she can't help but shudder, and he notices. This only fuels the fire raging inside of him. He takes his hand, the same one which he used timidly this year when searching for her own, and grabs her chin aggressively in his quest to hold her attention.

In contrast to his grip, his tone is gentle, his eyes soft.

"I don't even want to think about what Greyback would have done to you." His eyes flash dangerously before he continues in a voice that quakes with silent fury, "What she did do to you."

She gulps down her rising fear at the mention of her torture, and he automatically moves his hand from her chin to the slit on her neck. As he starts caressing the scar with his fingers, he stares straight into her eyes and says, "I have to be angry, Hermione. I don't care what everyone thinks—this war isn't over. It won't be over until all of the Death Eaters pay for what they did. You see? I don't have time to be sad when evil is still out there! When they can still hurt people!"

She can't help but think, looking at his eyes, which are pleading for her understanding, that people might specifically be one person. Her. She comes to this realization, and he gives her a small smile when he sees the recognition on her face.

"Hermione, I can't…"

His voice breaks as he loses his battle against tears once more. She wraps her arms around him, as before, and lets him ride the waves of his grief. His few tears turn into furious drops, which turn into full-out sobs. She loses track of time, lost in the pattern of moving her hand up and down his back, in an effort to remind him that he is not alone. Eventually, he resurfaces, and his blotchy face is painted with exhaustion. She grabs his chin, mimicking his previous action—now is her turn to be aggressive.

"Ron, it's ok to be both sad and angry! Both emotions are just two different ways of showing how much you care about people! You're devastated that they're gone, but you're also furious that they were hurt. Sadness is not a weakness, Ronald! The fact that you're so passionate about the people you love, it's one of the things I love most about you—" she gasps at her own words.

She has messed up, breaking the rules of this game they play. They are highly opinionated about each other's personal decisions to show they care. They reuse each other's words to show they were paying attention. They take subtle actions—a kiss on the cheek, a bottle of perfume, a comforting arm around the shoulder—never acknowledging that their behavior is out of the ordinary. But they have never, never been candid about their feelings.

She hazards a peek at Ron, anxious of his reaction, but if he feels awkward because of her admission, he doesn't show it. Instead, he gently removes her hand from his chin, moves both of his to hold her face, and leans in. This kiss, so unlike their first, is sweet, chaste, but with the promise of more to come. He pulls away from her much too soon, and she feels her face flush with embarrassment.

He breaks her train of thought as he asks in a hopeful but tired voice, "Will you stay with me tonight?"

At his words she remembers the depth of his fatigue, and feels foolish.

"Of course I will."

She gently pushes him down onto the couch, laying him on his side, before lying down next to him. He brings an arm around her side, pulling her against his chest. As she rests her head comfortably against him, she hears him whisper into her hair, "And by the way. I think snogging in the middle of the battle was a clear, "I love you," from the both of us, so you shouldn't mind saying it again." Then she feels him tense, and he asks worriedly, "You do love me, don't you?"

She turns so that she can see his face. "Do you?"

He responds indignantly, "'Course I do! I don't just go snogging people I don't care about!"

She gives him a pointed look, and she can see his ears turning violently red as he regrets his words.

"Ok fine, but I don't do this," he gestures at their entwined bodies, "with just anyone."

"After today, I would only be able to sleep if I had you next to me, Hermione. I do love you. And…I'm sorry about Lavender."

He mutters the last past under his breath, but she hears him, and can't help but smirk at his cowardice regarding that particular issue.

"Oh, I love you, too, you insufferable prat. Merlin knows why."

She sees him give her the first genuine smile she's seen from him in ages. He concludes the matter with an air of finality, "Well, glad that's settled."

She snuggles back into him, but before either can fade off into sleep he whispers to her again.

"I'm still sad. And angry."

She gives the hands he has wrapped around her a squeeze and replies, "I think you will be for a long time. I think our best bet is to make sure you're happy, too."

He kisses her hair and mutters softly, "I'm happy now."

"Good."

And with that, both eighteen-year-olds fell asleep, oblivious to the rising sun, the work ahead of them, and everything, really, but each other.

Author's Note: Please leave reviews so that I can better my writing! Also, let me know of any specific moments you would like me to write about in the future.