Chapter 7

She had just enough light, filtering in from the slight parting of the bedcurtain behind him, to study his profile as he slept — the high forehead slanting down into the straight nose, the full lips, parted a bit in sleep, the squared chin, the muscular neck and the pronounced Adam's apple, which flexed as he breathed to the rhythm of his dreams.

She had watched him sleep before. On the hunt. She hadn't been conscious of how often she did it until he was gone for those long painful weeks. Even then, she had never quite trained herself to stop seeking out the sight of him during the night. Her rational mind knew he was gone, but her nighttime mind — the half-conscious portion wrapped in a gauze of wishes and desire — hadn't fully caught up. So, even knowing he had disappeared, perhaps never to be seen again, she would look toward his cot in the deepest hours of the night, searching for the solace of his presence, a presence that she had found so reassuring through the worst days and nights of the hunt, starting from that first fateful night at Grimmauld Place and onward. And even when he had returned — when she had been so angry and hurt and disappointed that she could barely bring herself to speak to him — she found herself studying him in sleep. She had cursed herself and her weakness as she did so, of course. But it couldn't be helped. The sight of him comforted her, then and now.

The fact was, he exerted some sort of magnetic pull on her eyes, whether he was asleep or awake. Even when her brain told her she should know better than to look at him at all, her heart had other ideas. Lying there next to him in the quiet of his bed, she grimaced at the recollection of the time, not so long ago, when she had surreptitiously studied him from across the Common Room as he and Lavender snogged in the far corner by the hearth. She *knew* she should tear her eyes away, and yet she simply couldn't. Painfully fascinated, she had watched the muscles of his forearm flex as he clutched Lavender tight around the waist. She couldn't see his face — it was plastered against Lavender's, of course — but his arms. His *arms.* They were breathtaking. And they were wrapped around someone else. Until Ron took up with Lavender, Hermione hadn't realized just how much she wanted to be where Lavender was just then. The realization struck her with the force of a well-aimed Expulso: She was in love with Ron. She'd known she fancied him almost from her earliest time at Hogwarts. But this was no fancy. This was love. And the thought, as she sat there so many months earlier in the Gryffindor Common Room, had filled her with a profound sense of hopelessness and futility, for she was quite convinced back then that he would never be hers.

The smile slowly returned to her face, however, there in the snug darkness of Ron's four-poster. Granted, Ron may not have been hers back then — though, if he were awake and knew her thoughts, he would argue that all she'd had to do, even in the thick of the Lavender affair, was crook her finger in his direction and he would have dropped everything and come running in a heartbeat. But of course she didn't know that. What she *was* certain of at present, however — in addition to the newfound knowledge of how exquisite it felt to be wrapped in his muscular arms, against the warm skin of his bare chest — was that he loved her mightily. He'd said so over and over again after his initial, accidental admission of the fact, and his tone was so sincere, the look on his face so pure, that she had no choice but to believe him.

"So you're not freaked out?" he'd panted as he rolled onto his back, carrying her along with him so that she was splayed atop his chest, her hair cascading about their faces like a golden brown curtain. "You don't mind if I say it?" he had added breathlessly.

"Mind? Why would I possibly mind?" she had replied, looking down at him, her hands flat against his chest. She marveled once again at how beautiful and creamy his skin was even in this light. Despite the scratches and bruises here and there — or perhaps because of them — he was a magnificent sight. After a moment, she shook her head slightly, realizing that she'd been silent for a perhaps a beat or two too long, lost in her thoughts. "Honestly, Ronald," she then whispered. "To hear those words from your lips … if you only knew …"

"I think I do know," he had interrupted, cradling her face in his hands to lock her gaze into his. "I do know. I've loved you so long, Hermione. I should have told you sooner, but I'm telling you now. I love a lot of people … Harry … my family … our friends … but none more than you. There's no one else. Never has been, never will be." He brushed her cheeks tenderly with the pads of his thumbs, shifting his gaze from point to point about her face before returning to her eyes. "I love you, Hermione Jean Granger. I love you so bloody much."

"Oh, Ronald," she had murmured, tears leaking down her cheeks and falling onto his.

He had pulled her face closer to his and kissed the tears away with a series of gentle kisses, one by one, but she had craved the feeling of his lips on hers and soon nudged her mouth closer to his, and they lost themselves in wave after wave of deep kisses, tumbling madly about the bed until the inevitable happened — exhaustion overtook them, and they each sank into it, contented to sleep next to one another for the first time, though they both had been aware — though neither acknowledged it out loud — that they had wanted to do so much more than sleep.

Lying next to him now in the cozy confines of his bed, Hermione felt a warm swell of contentment wash over her. She let the bigger concerns of the moment flicker through her mind for a brief second — uneasiness about Harry's well-being, worry for the Weasleys, sorrow over Fred, nervousness about relocating her parents — but she quickly chased them away, choosing instead to focus on the here and now: Ronald Weasley, stretched out next to her beneath the covers and snoring ever so gently with every other breath.

Just then, his breathing pattern shifted slightly and she saw his eyelids flutter briefly.

He snorted a bit as he awakened further, and she struggled to stifle a laugh — but she made enough noise to wake him up a bit further. He stretched and ran a hand through his hair, making it point in all directions, before running the hand down over his face and turning his head to face her. "Sorry, love," he said in a sheepish tone. "Was I snoring?"

"No, not really," she answered, letting out the chuckle that she had been holding in. "All right, maybe a little."

"Oh, blimey, sorry about that, love," he replied, shifting onto his side to face her more directly. "Reckon this isn't the first time you've heard me snore, though," he added, a small grin curling the corner of his lip.

She laughed openly at that. "There were some nights on the hunt when you snored so loudly, I half expected the tent flaps to open and close with each breath," she said, biting back another chuckle.

"Oi! It was never *that* bad," he muttered, and even in the semi-darkness, she could see his cheeks reddening. Still, she could tell he was grinning widely. "You've let loose with a few rafter-rattlers yourself, you know," he added. "There was a time in the tent when Harry and I thought about putting a Muffliato around your bunk."

She slapped his shoulder, pretending to be more offended than she really was, but she couldn't help it — she was laughing hysterically at this point. "Shut it, you," she gasped, slapping his shoulder lightly for good measure.

"Ow!" he said, rubbing his shoulder melodramatically. "Cease and desist, woman, or I'm going to have to take defensive measures."

"Oh really?"

"Really," he answered. "But first, allow me to excuse myself." And with that he parted the curtains and padded off toward the loo.

The curtains remained slightly open while Ron was gone, and Hermione leaned forward and craned her neck to get a good look at Harry's bed. His four-poster was now occupied. She could see Harry and Ginny's trainers both tucked neatly beside the bed. Hmm. She made a mental note to pump Ginny for information about that particular situation later. In the meantime, she thanked Merlin that either Harry or Ginny had been mindful enough to cast a strong Muffliato charm on the bed before retiring, for not a sound — not even so much as a breath — could be heard from that direction. But before she could think much more about it, Ron returned and she realized that she could do with a trip to the loo herself.

"Be right back," she whispered, slipping out of the bed as Ron tucked himself back in.

Ron watched her go, shaking his head briskly for a second to remind himself that what he was seeing and experiencing was real — not yet another pointless and agonizing dream. It really was Hermione tiptoeing quietly through his room toward the loo and, a few minutes later, it really was Hermione returning to his bed — *his* bed! — and stretching herself out beside him in his arms. Gods.

"Have you been awake for long?" he asked as she settled into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. He nestled his hand in her hair and pressed her cheek against his bare chest.

"No," she answered. "Well, I don't know, actually. I was dreaming — good dreams," she hastened to add, "and then, well, I slowly realized that my eyes were open and I was just … well … looking at you."

"Hmm," he murmured as he planted a kiss atop her head. "It is a bit hard to believe it's real, isn't it."

"It is," she answered without hesitation. She knew exactly what he meant. And, at that very moment, he knew exactly what she meant. It had been that way ever since the battle ended. For the first time in all the years they'd known one another, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger understood exactly what the other one meant. Doubt, fear, insecurity … all the impediments that had complicated their relationship … seemed to drop away, leaving only the confidence of a friendship that had endured and crystallized into something even greater than that, and faith in one another's best intentions. Ron took in a deep breath, realizing and savoring it, and Hermione wrapped her arm around his middle pulling herself that much closer to him as the feeling enveloped her as well.

"Hermione," Ron sighed.

"Hmm?"

He let a few seconds go by before responding. "Nothing. I just like saying your name," he said.

She chuckled and nuzzled his shoulder. "I like hearing you say it."

"Good."

They laid there in silence, listening to the rhythm of one another's breathing for some space of time, though neither was really aware of how long.

Ron had been threading his fingers in and out of her curls, silently apologizing to her in his head, for he imagined that she'd curse him in the morning when she saw what a mess he'd made of her locks. But her hair was so silky, he couldn't resist sinking his fingers into it and exploring it — especially now that he was at liberty to do so after so many years of staring and wishing.

"Mione," he whispered a little while later, not sure if she was even awake. He was mildly surprised when she answered, "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, you know," he said lowly. She knew in her bones what he meant — Lavender, leaving the hunt for a time, the Yule Ball … saying the occasional mean thing to her over the years — and he knew in his bones that she understood implicitly what he was getting at without explanation.

"I know you are," she answered. "Most of it wasn't your fault you know."

He paused to consider. "Well …" he began.

"No, really," she said, cutting him off and lifting herself up, propping up on her elbow so she could really look at him. "So much of it was just, I don't know, us being young and stupid — both of us," she said. He made to interject, but she pressed her index finger against his lips. "It's true, darling, you know it is," she added. "We were too young to know better, and the time wasn't right," she said. "We had a job to do. We had to think of Harry first and foremost."

Ron nodded reluctantly, though he knew she was right, of course.

"As for the other thing — the hunt," she continued, her voice wobbling a bit. "I have a good idea what was really going on there, Ronald, and I promise you, that truly wasn't your fault."

"Hermione," he said firmly, "that's not on and you know it. I've got a lot to answer for, and that—"

She pressed a finger against his lips again. "Shh," she whispered. "We both have a lot to answer for, Ronald. And, someday, I'll convince you why you shouldn't feel bad at all about what happened on the hunt, about what that blasted Horcrux did to you."

She nodded and tilted her face toward him to be sure he was listening to her — and she was gratified to see that he was. He tilted his face up to her trustingly, unshed tears threatening to well over onto his cheeks.

"I think I know precisely what that Horcrux did to you, my love, and I intend to ease your conscience on that score — but not tonight. I'd rather speak of more pleasant things tonight. In the meantime, please trust me on this: The Horcrux wasn't your fault, and I'd say that I forgive you for all of it, except that there's nothing to forgive." He hiccuped, but she pressed on. "Even if there *were* something to forgive, Ron, the ledgers between us were balanced that night at Malfoy Manor. You saved my life and I reckon that, even if I *did* blame you for what happened on the hunt, what you did for me that night — *and* at Shell Cottage — was enough to erase any harm we may have done to one another before then. The good news is, we've got a lifetime to sort it all out, don't we."

As he listened, Ron felt a stinging, tightening sensation in his throat as he fought to choke back tears. Gods, she was letting him off the hook — and for so much. He wasn't sure he deserved it but, as she spoke, he slowly let go, reckoning that the time for arguing with her about his shortcomings could wait. For now, he decided, he'd trust her. And she was worth trusting, wasn't she. By Merlin, he thought, she hasn't let me down yet.

"I love you, Ron," she added for good measure, and these words were all it took to unlock the dam that he'd placed on his emotions until then. Before he could second-guess himself, he surged forward and pressed Hermione back against the mattress. He crushed his mouth against hers, plunging his tongue deep between her lips. Hermione, shaken at first by the power of his forceful movements, quickly melted and wrapped her legs tightly around Ron's middle, and silently thanked whatever forces had brought them there to this place, safely and in one piece.

oooOOOooo

A/N — If you're wondering what Hermione's theory is about Ron's departure from the hunt and the way the Horcrux affected him, then you might want to read my first fic, "All In," because I lay it all out in fine detail there. That story is complete and just waiting for you to dive in and enjoy.

But before you go there, dear reader, please review this chapter! Yes, I'm *that* insecure. I thrive on your feedback.

And just so you don't think I'm all about reviews for me, me, me … please be aware that, even as I write this, one of the most talented Romione authors out there is tirelessly flogging away at another even *better* Romione fic for you. That's right! The story is in progress and being updated continuously, and it's worth your attention. The title is "Things You Said," and the writer is none other than the incomparable OtterAndTerrier. So surf on over there and check it out — but not before reviewing this thang!

Many thanks …

Holly.