A/N: I was re-reading the Deathly Hallows and at a particular point, this story just grew in my mind in to something like a messy, overgrown flower bed, and wouldn't go away like a stubborn f**king weed, and I had to get it out. JKR skips over the first few days at Shell Cottage in a few sentences (Harry mostly spends them on his own walking along the cliffs) and so my mind started to mull over what might have happened between Ron and Hermione at a time when she must have been feeling incredibly vulnerable and when he had an opportunity to make up for his previous mess-up/s…and the result is below…

Also, here's hopefully a little Ron-bashing antidote for those that need it.

All characters, world etc belong to JK Rowling. '*' indicates words from the original work of JKR. t's un-beta'ed so I'm welcoming of any SPAG errors being pointed out. Originally posted on FFN in Nov 2018. Edited March 2019 (no plot change, I just improved the writing somewhat - at least, that's what I was aiming for ;o))

Reviews/comments are loved. Truly. Madly. Deeply.

Shell Cottage

Day one: Respite

A bolt of pain pierced through the shifting shadows of Hermione's dreams, making her muscles spasm and awakening her with a violent jolt.

She hurt everywhere.

A sharp, shooting pain burst from her ribs each time she inhaled and there was dull ache along each of her limbs. She became aware that she was lying on something soft, softer than the camping beds she'd become accustomed to over the last months. She tentatively opened her eyes and groaned because the incoming light initially seemed to burn her very corneas. The world was a mass of blurred shapes and she blinked in an attempt to clear her vision, trying to work out where she was. Where were the others? Were they okay?

"Ron?" Hermione said the word instinctively, although her mind hadn't seemed to have connected with her mouth properly and it came out as more of a grunt. She heard a scuffle near her and then felt whatever she was lying on give way slightly as someone sat next to her, clasping one of her hands in both of theirs. A blur of beige and red drifted into her vision.

"Hermione? You're okay. We're at Bill and Fleur's cottage. We apparated here when we escaped from Malfoy Manor." She knew immediately from his voice that it was Ron. She inhaled deeply, because breathing in the scent of him was like taking a relaxation potion: her muscles seemed to soften and the pain in her temples dulled ever so slightly. She normally would have felt alarmed at her blurred eyesight, but the feel of her hand in Ron's seemed to ground her, like the anchor of a ship in the midst of a squall.

"Are you okay? Where's Harry?" she asked urgently, grateful her words were sounding more coherent.

"I'm fine. Harry's fine too." His voice was quiet but firm.

To Hermione's relief, her surroundings were coming in to sharper focus. She realised she was lying on a sofa in what must be Bill and Fleur's sitting room, but couldn't see much of the room because Ron's face took up nearly all of her vision. He was frowning down at her, concern etched in the lines of his forehead. She heard the distant crashing of waves and a lone cry of a seagull.

"Do you remember what happened?" Ron asked hesitantly.

"I..." And then, unexpected and unbidden, memories flooded her mind: a dark figure, face framed with wild black hair loomed over her…pain like she had never felt before - as if her bones were on fire and her skin was being doused in acid...blood, thick like syrup, running down her neck as a knife cut through her skin…the glint of crystal as a chandelier fell - "Yes…how did we get out?" Hermione interrupted her own thoughts, forcefully pushing the images away.

Ron explained about the eye in Harry's mirror, the appearance of Dobby and everything that had happened since. "And then I apparated here with you, took you straight inside and you passed out for a few minutes. Fleur healed the cut on your neck but she said it would be sore for a few days and you've got some cuts and bruises but otherwise should be okay, she said -" Ron stopped abruptly. It appeared he'd run out of breath. He inhaled, then continued more calmly. "Harry's apparated just now, with Griphook and Dobby. I just saw them out the window -"

The door of the sitting room creaked open and Fleur walked in. She was wearing a white apron with a bottle of Skele-gro in the pocket, and was holding a tattered book in her hand. She stopped midstride, her eyes sharply flitting between Ron, Hermione and their clasped hands, before meeting Hermione's gaze.

"You're awake Hermione? How are you feeling?" she asked gently.

"Okay...everything aches a bit...but I'm okay." Hermione forced her voice to sound stronger than she felt.

Fleur nodded briefly, then shifted uncomfortably, as if not sure how to say her next words.

"The house elf that apparated with Harry," she began, then paused. "He's dead."

"What…how?!" Ron exclaimed, incredulous.

"I think it's you that need to give us answers,'" Fleur reproached her brother-in-law, although her voice was kind. "We couldn't get much out of Harry."

Hermione felt a painful stab of loss for the house elf. Her grief merged with a flush of anger - anger that someone else that had helped them - that had tried to do the right thing - had been taken from them.

"Harry's digging a grave for him. Without magic." Fleur said quietly.

There was a silence as Fleur's words hung in the air between them. None of them questioned why Harry would dig the grave without magic. Hermione understood that it was Harry's way of giving something back to the house elf that had done so much for them.

Ron frowned down at Hermione.

"I'll go and help him. Will you be okay?"

"Of course," Hermione said, although a part of her - a silly, weak part that she tried to squash away - didn't want him to leave. Ron gave her a tight smile, squeezed her hand and released it slowly before leaving to help their friend. As he exited the room, it was as if a draft of cold air hit Hermione, rippling uncomfortably over her skin, and the pain throughout her body heightened, sharp and unrelenting.

Fleur surveyed Hermione for a moment and then sank in to an armchair by the sofa. Hermione's eyes rested on the book in the Fleur's hand. She recognised it as one she had revised from for her O. : Remedies and Reliefs for Dark Hexes and Curses. As she gazed at the book, phrases from the chapter on the Cruciatus Curse came back to her:

Even if victims have been subject to the curse for a relatively short period of time, it is common for them to experience global pain for several days afterwards as their body recovers…disturbed sleep is also common…vivid dreams…nightmares...Unfortunately, there are few, if any, potions or spells that can speed the recovery of the afflictions caused by this curse. This is one of the reasons it has been classified as an Unforgiveable Curse...Rest and the comfort of loved ones are the most effective factors in healing...

Hermione's eyes drifted up to meet Fleur's eyes. She didn't know how much the French woman knew about what had happened to them, and wasn't sure how much she should share, even if she had the energy to explain it. But it was clear from the Skele-gro, the book and the curious but worried expression on Fleur's face that she was doing all she could to help them.

"Thanks. Thank you for helping us," Hermione murmured, not quite knowing how to voice the appreciation she felt.

"Of course," Fleur said dismissively. "Now - I'll help you up to bed. You need to rest somewhere more comfortable."

"I will, when I've come back." Hermione moved to sit up, ignoring the waves of pain that coursed through her body as she did so.

"Come back from where?" Fleur asked sharply.

"From saying goodbye to Dobby."

"No, you have to rest!" Fleur insisted.

"I'm fine." Hermione hissed the lie out through clenched teeth, visibly grimacing.

"You can't even move properly!" Fleur objected, putting the book down and moving to help Hermione up. Hermione ignored her comment and waved the French woman's hands away as she struggled, successfully, to get to her feet, giving Fleur a defiant look as she did so. Fleur's face softened.

"Okay, okay. I'll get you a dressing gown and help you down the garden," she relented.

As they exited Shell Cottage, Hermione and Fleur were joined by Luna and Bill who had come down from upstairs. Hermione's body ached with every step she took down to the grave at the bottom of the garden. To her annoyance, and despite her best efforts, she knew she was doing a poor job of hiding her discomfort. Her unsteady and weak legs were giving her away.

As they approached the grave that Ron and Dean had helped Harry dig, Hermione noticed in the half-light of dawn that Ron had dirt smeared on his hands and arms. He even had a smudge of it on his nose, reminding Hermione with a pang of nostalgia of the first time she had met him on the Hogwarts Express. She looked down at the ground in a further attempt to steady herself and noticed with confusion that Ron's feet were bare. Then she realised, with a rush of affection for him, that he had given his shoes and socks to Dobby, as a last gift.

Ron turned as she approached and put his arm around her. It was a gesture that had become more common place over the last couple of months and had started to feel natural and normal. Hermione fitted into the crook of his shoulder as if they had originally been part of one whole. A whole that had broken at some point and had then been mended back together again.

At his touch, Hermione instantly felt sturdier on her feet and something - she couldn't fathom what - flooded her body, dulling the pain. She purposely leaned in to him more, craving more of his warmth and the seemingly pain-alleviating effects of his touch.

Then Hermione listened as Luna, in her gentle, lilting voice, managed to put in to words the grief-stricken thoughts of all of them.

Much to Fleur's irritation, Hermione didn't rest that day. Because something had changed in Harry. He appeared to have a new sense of purpose and a clarity of mind that he hadn't had in a long time. Possibly ever. Hermione didn't know if it was due to Dobby's death, or having been captured and on the verge of facing Voldemort again - or something else entirely - but something had changed in him.

Not long after burying Dobby, Hermione and Ron were hovering on the threshold of the sitting room of Shell Cottage, eavesdropping on a hushed exchange between Harry, Bill and Fleur, who were on the stairs. Harry was insisting on being able to speak to Griphook and Ollivander. Hermione, unusually, was a bit lost as to what she should do and she could tell from the looks she was exchanging with Ron that he felt equally unsure. This focused, determined Harry was unfamiliar to them. They finally heard Bill give in and Harry starting to head up the stairs to speak with Griphook, when he stopped and shouted down to them.

"I need you two, as well!"* In response, Hermione and Ron to emerged sheepishly into the hall.

"How are you?" Harry asked Hermione when she joined him on the stairs. "You were amazing - coming up with that story when she was hurting you like that-"*

Not for the first time that morning, Hermione felt a rush of relief at not having failed friends - at not having given the Death Eaters any leverage- but being reminded of Malfoy Manor made her heart speed up and chest tighten, and she had to wilfully push away the unwanted images that flashed across her mind.

She gave Harry a weak smile and felt Ron momentarily wrap his arm around her, giving her shoulders a quick squeeze. Again, she felt something soothing charge through her as Ron touched her, causing the tension in her shoulders to ease and her pain to fade where his arm had been. What was that? Hermione thought, puzzled, glancing at Ron. What was happening when he touched her? Was he performing some kind of healing magic without telling her? But she could tell just by looking at him that Ron was oblivious to the effect he was having on her. Hermione knew him well enough to be confident of that.

She didn't have any time to dwell on it further, for the next hour or so was taken up with an intense discussion with Griphook. Hermione was trying to keep up with Harry's thought processes, trying to fit the pieces together in her mind: Harry wanted to break in to Gringotts? That was ridiculous, surely…and the Lestrange's vault?...Harry must be convinced there was Horcrux in there…but what had made him so certain?...

A furtive exchange between her, Harry and Ron on the stairs answered some of Hermione's questions before they went to see Ollivander. Hermione felt the now familiar guilt as Ollivander confirmed that Harry's wand couldn't be repaired. Again, new revelations seemed to spark new questions: there had been something unusual about how Harry's wand had acted the night of the seven Potters…but what did that connection mean?...the Elder wand was real?!...did that mean the Hallows were real too?...no…they were just a fairy tale, surely...

Hermione's head was spinning with theories and hypotheses, and although exhausting, it was a welcome distraction from the pain in her body and the memories of the night before. As Harry explained his thinking to Ron and Hermione in the garden of Shell Cottage, she felt relief that Harry was focusing on the Horcruxes rather than the Hallows. That's what Dumbledore had said they should do. No good could come of something as powerful as the Elder wand, Hermione was sure of that.

And all the while, Ron had been by her side, as if some invisible string connected them that stopped one of them going too far from the other. As she went to sit in the chair in Griphook's room, Ron perched on the arm. As she experienced a surge of nausea at the thought of Voldemort knowing about the destruction of Harry's wand, Hermione noticed how Ron reproached Harry for bringing it up and wilfully changed the subject.

Hermione realised she was taking a huge comfort in Ron's presence. She hated to admit it, because it felt like a weakness, but she knew her mind and body needed time to recover from the torture that had been inflicted on them. It was this, and the constant, ever-present knowledge of her parents' absence lurking in the shadows at the back of her mind, that was making Hermione feel more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life.

As the sunset over Shell Cottage that evening, Ron helped Hermione up the steep stairs to her bedroom. She felt an overwhelming tiredness. A tiredness that seemed to seep right in to the centre of her muscles, right into the core of her bones, and she sank with relief on to the soft mattress and freshly washed sheets of the bed that Bill had made up. The room was sparse of furniture, with nowhere for Ron to sit, so he perched uncertainly on the edge of her bed.

When Hermione's head hit the pillow her heavy eyelids fell shut of their own accord, and she was instantly confronted with a vivid image of a leering Fenrir Greyback, which seemed to morph grotesquely into Bellatrix Lestrange's frenzied expression and wild black hair. Hermione's eyes snapped open. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure Ron could hear it and she was gasping desperately, as if she'd just been running from Snatchers again.

Ron was looking down at her with that same anxious expression he had worn that morning. Hermione's heart instantly slowed, her body calming at the sight of him. Her eyelids were so, so heavy but she fought to keep them open. She desperately wanted to sleep, but was scared of the images and visions that she feared would come with it. She wanted to explain this to Ron but was finding it hard to form words in to meaningful sentences.

"Stay," was all she managed to mumble.

"Sure…I'll stay 'til you're asleep."

Hermione gave in to the heaviness of her eyelids and they fluttered shut again. Half her mind was still fighting to stay awake - to keep present in the room - whilst the other half was drifting in to disturbed sleep...a sleep of smashing crystal...a dagger dripping blood...of Dobby's dead eyes...Her heart started pounding again. She was still conscious of Ron sitting by her and, without being fully aware of what she was doing, she lifted her hand, clasping at his pyjama top.

"No. Don't leave," she heard herself say with surprising conviction, before her hand slackened and dropped to her side.

Hermione was aware of a stillness in Ron, as if his whole body had tensed up. She considered forcing her eyes open to see the expression on her best friend's face but then she felt him move. She heard him say something - something about "never leaving her again" - and then sensed him move to lie down next to her. She felt with gratitude the warmth of his body inches from hers and was vaguely aware of placing her arm across his chest before sleep finally took her.