A/N: Wait, I don't actually have anything to say. I hope you like it? :D
A light snowfall had picked up by mid-afternoon. They'd apparated north, now in search of a secluded space to set up camp, having discounted the first spot they'd tried as much too rocky. He'd been walking behind her, socks getting soggy from muddy slush melting with each step, and her hood had slipped down from her head, flakes of snow falling in dead silence to slowly melt in her frizzy, brown curls.
It might have been because he hadn't slept, but the day felt oddly surreal, as if the world had forgotten it was at war. He could almost imagine they weren't out here hiding, that time itself had frozen with the rivers and lochs.
She turned to glance at him over her frosted shoulder, as she had done every few minutes for quite a while now, and he oddly suspected she had to be sure he was still there...
He took two quick strides to catch up, walking beside her then, her nose quite pink, breathing from chapped lips. Ice cracked lightly beneath her footfalls, and she clutched his arm, wordlessly.
"What about there?" Harry suggested, indicting a spot just beyond the narrow valley they had entered.
"Looks alright, yeah," Ron said, when Hermione remained silent, letting go of him to shift the strap of her bag higher up her shoulder. "Next time, we go someplace tropical," he added to her, tugging up the corner of his mouth in a half-grin as she suppressed a smile, following Harry.
It wasn't long before they'd set up camp, and Harry had told them without chance for argument that he was sleeping through the evening, in order to be rested enough to take an extra shift overnight. Ron had barely been able to keep his eyes open through starting a fire, which had most likely been the final straw prompting Harry's suggestion. Hermione had found a cozy spot on the floor to read, as the sun fell slowly behind the white hills around them. And Ron had tried to skim through notes as Harry slept, but he was retaining approximately zero percent of the information he was reading, so he gave it up, slumping down on the sofa, eyelids slipping shut.
"Wish we could get his mind off the bloody Hallows…" Hermione scowled, furiously flipping to the next page in the giant tome she was browsing, and Ron cracked open an eye.
"Yeah, good luck," he sighed, and she lifted her gaze to meet his, shaking her head.
"It feels like a race now - you and I with Horcruxes, Harry with Hallows. He's becoming obsessed, Ron."
He studied her expression, sleeves of her jumper tugged halfway down her pale hands as she gripped the book in her lap.
"Well… we'll just have to outsmart him," he said, smiling. "Which means you'll outsmart him, and I'll back you up."
Her furrowed brow softened… but then she wrinkled her nose, sucking in a breath before she sneezed. He lifted both eyebrows and blinked at her.
"Fine. I've got a cold," she admitted, sliding a spare sheet of parchment between two worn pages and shutting her book with a thud.
"Yeah. I know," he said pointedly, half-grinning at her. She rolled her eyes and brushed book dust from her jeans, untwisting her legs and standing.
He straightened up and blinked more awake, suppressing a yawn.
"Can I interest you in watered down broth?" he asked cheekily as he stood. "Heard it's a delicacy."
"Actually," she said, following him to the kitchen, "I think there's a packet of biscuits left at the bottom of my bag. Probably crushed a bit… likely stale…"
"Stale biscuits? My favourite," and he arrived at the stove, levitating a covered saucepan over the flame and turning around to lean back against the table.
"Do you still remember what good food actually tastes like? I think I've forgotten-" but she cut herself off abruptly, face suddenly dropping quite seriously.
Now nearly unreadable, a wall was back.
"But then you've only been back a week. Almost slipped my mind…" she added, at a near-whisper, the lightness that had somehow developed between them softly fading to nothing again as she turned away.
"I didn't…" He paused, scraping a hand across his jaw. He wouldn't have offered this information unprovoked. "I wouldn't eat with them."
"What?" she inquired somewhat distractedly as she reached for her bag, shoving a hand down inside and rummaging.
"At Bill and Fleur's. They tried to…" He shut his eyes for a minute, wondering if he'd ever forgive himself enough to move on. But when he opened his eyes again, she'd paused her movements completely and was staring at him. "I hated myself for leaving. I kept thinking of- ...shit, of you and Harry carrying on without me."
He hunched forward a bit, finding an interesting spot on the canvas behind her to focus on.
"Didn't want to be comfortable."
The saucepan lid rattled behind him, and he broke his gaze with the wall, returning his attention to "supper."
His eyes had gone a bit blurry as he stirred their boiling broth. She'd been coming around, he'd thought, really seemed to want to understand him. But the truth was, the wedge was still there for her. It wouldn't be easy to forget, even if she forgave.
But then, quite suddenly, her arms slid under his from behind - circling his waist - and he tensed, startled. As he listened to his accelerating heartbeat, he felt her press her forehead to his back, very lightly, through his jumper. He had to do something - anything - but he was frozen, head to toe.
And then, she was leaving. A desperate lump leapt up to fill his dry throat.
"I think I'll shower first," she said, in a strangely shaky voice. "Harry'll be awake soon."
And as he listened to her receding movements, he released the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.
Hermione was climbing into her bunk by the time Harry went outside to take watch. A light wind was waving against their canvas walls, but the night was otherwise fairly silent and peaceful.
Ron crossed to his bunk and removed his sleeping bag, tossing it to the foot her of bed without speaking. She glanced down quickly before darting her eyes toward him.
"It's even colder here than last night," she finally said. "You need a blanket."
"Still got this," he pointed out, holding up his cloak before laying it out across his thin mattress.
"Oh, you'll be toasty warm, then…"
He met her narrowed eyes and grinned. But she reached for his sleeping bag anyway, opening it and straightening it out over her bed as she crossed her legs to sit in the middle, facing him. He sat on his own bed, across from her, but she didn't seem particularly ready to fall asleep, and as tired as he was, he didn't want to miss time he could spend with her, alone…
He felt immediately self-conscious for his thoughts, despite her not being able to read his bloody mind.
"Oh!" she said suddenly, leaning over and reaching under her bed for something. She straightened up again with a slightly crumpled page in her hands. "Take a look at this."
Curiously, he slid out of bed, kneeling in front of her bunk as she held up what she had found. It was a moving photograph of herself, Ron and Harry, from possibly third year, judging by their appearances, he recalled distantly.
"Wow," he laughed, sitting up on his knees and leaning close to her lap to get a better look.
"Found it at the bottom of my trunk when I was packing over the summer. Forgot I'd put it in my bag til a couple of weeks ago when I found it again, while I was looking for something else."
"When was this?" Ron asked, thinking, watching as he threw an arm around Harry in the photograph, all three of them laughing about something. "That's your third year haircut, innit? What were we doing- oh, Hufflepuff Ravenclaw Quidditch, yeah?" A flash of blue passed by them in the photo, as a cluster of Ravenclaw girls headed somewhere off the edge of the frame.
"Third year haircut?" she boggled, and he felt her staring at him before he shifted his gaze from the picture to her shining eyes.
"Yeah, Harry's hair covered half his ears and yours did that thing in the back where it was a little bit longer in the middle."
She blinked down at him.
"Are you serious? How do you remember that?!"
"Dunno, just do."
"What else do you remember?" she asked, somewhat breathlessly.
"I was a prat to Crookshanks that year."
She glared at him.
"Only Crookshanks?"
He feigned confusion, nodding slowly.
"Yeah…" he paused, pretending to think carefully, "can't think of anybody else-"
She slapped his arm quite hard, and he winced involuntarily. But he continued to suppress a grin, clearing his throat.
"Y'know, I never apologised to him properly. Should find the little git when we're back home and tell him I'm sorry, y'reckon?"
She rolled her eyes, but her expression was light and teasing.
"Can't say I'd mind overhearing that conversation."
He grinned at her then, resting his elbow on her bed and propping his head in his hand.
"I've got a favourite memory from that year," he said in a sleepy voice.
"What?"
"Can't guess?"
She considered him for a moment.
"Saving Buckbeak, saving Sirius… winning the house cup?"
"Probably should be one of those," he laughed, "-blimey, that was a good year - but no. And anyway, I was stuck in the hospital wing while you and Harry traveled through bloody time, so…"
"Well," she sniffed, wrinkling her nose as if she was about to sneeze again, narrowly avoiding it, "what was it, then, your favourite memory?"
"You… slapping sodding Malfoy in the face."
She pressed her lips together but straightened up a bit, looking rather proud of herself.
"That was pretty good…" she said quietly, watching him raise his eyebrows.
"I think that's when-" he started, but then, he realised how close he was to forgetting. She didn't know the truth. How was it possible to be so comfortable with someone that he could almost tell her his most well-kept secret in a casual conversation, but the moment he started planning how to tell her, later, his chest would clench tight and his words would fail him?
He'd been about to say that he'd started to see her differently, around that time, that year. Maybe that wasn't entirely true, but it felt like the right time to him, looking back. He'd never be so bold as to admit to himself that he actually fancied her, at fourteen, but he'd definitely felt something different then, something that had slowly twisted inside him for the next three years until he'd realised, gradually, that he was in love with her…
"That's when what?" she asked, having been waiting some time for the rest of his cut-off sentence.
"Hm?" and he managed to reasonably feign ignorance as he blinked slowly. "Forgot what I was on about."
He shifted his head in his hand, clearing his throat again.
"What's your favourite memory from that year?" he added, deflecting. "Or did you already give me your list with Buckbeak and Sirius?"
But his distraction had worked, and they spent the next quarter hour reminiscing. It was almost bittersweet how easy it was to be themselves, in memories. He forgot to hold on to the little, nagging reminder that he'd hurt her, more than he'd imagined he ever could. And she forgot to hold back, no longer clipping off words at the end of tight sentences.
He'd lowered his head to his forearm, and her voice was washing over him gently, dim lantern light and softly pattering sleet against their tent...
"Ron?" she whispered, and he felt her hand on his arm, though he couldn't do it, couldn't open his eyes and find her gone, the world cold and his chest aching for what he'd done, no way back. "Ron?"
She shook him lightly, and he clenched his eyes tighter, heartbeat rapid against his ribs. She wasn't really there, he knew. And he couldn't face it.
"You're having a bad dream," she told him, so delicately, her fingers feather light on his skin.
And something clicked. He opened his eyes, finding the dark room blurry from crying in his sleep.
He was sitting on the floor, hunched over the side of her bed, head on his arm, right leg partially asleep and tingling from his position. And she was there, staring down at him, brow creased with genuine concern.
"What-" he started, lifting his head. "You're here… you're…"
"Of course I am. You fell asleep on my bed."
But she didn't understand. Moments ago, he'd been lost, trudging infinitely through the woods in search of her… and Harry… desperate to find his way back to them, but losing every thread of hope that he ever would.
But the real world slowly slid back into place. He was home. He'd made it. And she didn't hate him.
He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a sound between a laugh and a cry.
"You were dreaming you hadn't found us, weren't you."
"Yeah," he managed through an unsteady exhale.
She let go of his arm, and it was only then that he realised she'd still been holding on.
She seemed to make up her mind about something before she shifted, moving back to her pillow and adjusting blankets and his sleeping bag back over her body.
"Get in," she instructed, not looking back down at him. "You're shaking."
And he would have sworn he'd misunderstood her if she hadn't then scooted to the far edge of her bunk, turning onto her side with her back facing him, leaving a substantial space open for such a narrow bed.
He was shaking, he realised, as his whole body fought for him to do as she had asked.
For a stretched moment, he was frozen, staring at her back, overwhelmed by remnants of his dream and her words. And then, he knew, he had to choose - do exactly what he wanted, what she'd asked him to do; or let the other side win, the side with a rusted chain, a heavy locket, reminding him in dreams of angry nights, jealousy, emptiness…
He stretched his leg, waking it up, and he gathered himself to his feet, sinking his knee into her mattress as he crawled into the empty space she'd left for him.
He could just fit, on his back, with his shoulder at the absolute edge. If he moved too quickly, in his sleep, he'd probably fall off altogether. She was absolutely still beside him, and he wondered if she'd already fallen asleep. He reached for the tail of a blanket she'd left loose, tugging it gently over his body, feet sticking out from the bottom as he floated in a place between heightened sensitivity and exhaustion.
And the part of him that still belonged to memories of possession wondered how she'd feel when she woke, later, to find him in her bed…
Warmth radiated from his left, a light pressure by his ear. And he couldn't move his left leg as easily as he could make sense of just yet.
Someone was breathing, beside him.
His arm tensed, and he turned his head a fraction to the left as he opened his eyes.
Hermione had flipped over, presumably in her sleep, and the tip of her nose was touching his ear, her warm breath wafting against his skin. Her hair had fallen partly over her shoulder, tickling his neck and upper arm. And her leg…
Her right knee was overlapping his left leg, piecing together the last bit of the puzzle of his current state, softly trapped under her. He tried very hard not to move an inch.
Her blankets had bunched on top of him, and he was actually a bit overheated, which could explain what had woken him in the first place. But he had no plans to do anything about it… until she sighed in her sleep, slowly moving her hand until her fingers wrapped around his bicep-
-and her eyes popped open.
Sucking in a breath, she backed a few inches away from him, glancing up to meet his eyes, startled.
"Sorry!" she said quickly, voice scratchy from lack of use.
"S'fine," he said immediately, flexing his toes. The movement drew her attention to her own leg, which was still partially overlapping his. She slid it away from him and dropped her gaze to his shoulder.
"I really hope I'm not contagious…"
But he shrugged, not actually minding in the least.
"I should probably check on Harry," he said, reluctantly.
"Yeah…"
But he didn't move, seemingly frozen in place.
"Hermione…"
But there was nothing he could say. The words tumbled over and vanished, and he cursed the way he was stuck, always one step behind where he wished he could be. But he turned to fully face her, catching her eyes a bit wide, searching.
And there was a moment, between them, when it didn't seem to matter that he didn't know what to say… before she broke their gaze, clearing her throat.
"Thank you, for staying."
He tried to surface from nerves and tension and her. But why would she say-
"What?" he asked, hoarsely.
"It's much warmer with… you know." She scooted the tiniest bit further away from him, nervously.
"Oh. Good."
His drumming heartbeat reminded him, insistently, that he was much too close. That if he didn't move, now, he might never do what he needed to do next. Harry had been out there, alone, for long enough.
"Sleep more if you want," he said, as he forced every muscle in his body to obey his commands, slowly sitting up and untangling blankets as he spoke. "Can't have been too long. I set an alarm. Hasn't gone off yet."
He swung his legs over the edge of the bad, standing and stretching and feeling his neck burn as he crossed to his bunk and picked up his watch. He heard her breathing slowly, behind him, so he chanced another glance, finding her eyes closed, hand curled on the pillow where he'd just been…
He breathed in icy air, closing his eyes for just a second, cooling down. Harry had gone inside quickly, shivering slightly and looking distracted. And now, Ron was left with deep darkness through glassy trees and the reflection of moonlight off snow-covered earth.
He'd just been sleeping in her bed. Because she'd asked him to. Because she wanted him there. He probably had her cold - she'd been breathing on him. It was an absolute miracle he hadn't embarrassed himself. And he began immediately planning how to do it again...