Harry

Harry was perched on the crumbly stone wall by the veggie garden, morosely reflecting on his new-found freedom, replete as it was with utterly crippling grief, when Ginny charged past wielding a muggle polaroid camera.

"Whu-"

"Wanna see just about the cutest thing ever?"

"Uh, sure… it's not pygmy puffs, is it?"

She gave a short huff of amusement.

"Oh, it's so much worse than that!"

Her eyes were bloodshot from crying in secret, but this was about the most normal interaction he'd had with anyone in over a week. Even the little visit to Hermione's parents' empty flat had been decidedly uncomfortable and strange. Harry dusted off his jeans and trailed after Ginny, trying not to fixate too much on the way the afternoon sun was gleaming through her hair.

It was like liquid fire.

It was like-

Stop it.

It was messily braided, and he wanted to undo it and run his hands through it, and-

I said stop.

She was leading him around the back of the Burrow, in the direction of the orchard. He felt things heavily on him, as though his feet had forgotten how to walk, and the grass seemed greener and slipperier than he remembered, and the breeze was catching whisps of her hair and he just-

Knock it off, would you? What, did you think it would all just be fine?

Ginny stopped abruptly, one arm out to block him, fingertips grazing the front of his jumper.

"Look," She whispered, and she sounded hopeful.

Sprawled beneath an apple tree, half-propped up on cushions, dappled with the light of summer afternoon and the shaking shadows of leaves… Hermione curled against Ron's shoulder, his arm around her, one big hand on her knee because she'd hooked her leg over one of his…

Slow, chainsaw snores emanated from Ron's open mouth. His face twitched a bit as Hermione's wild hair tickled his nose in the breeze. She was half-lying on top of him, and a dark patch of drool was forming on his jumper.

"Uh…?"

"Adorable, no?"

"Yeah, the snoring and the slobber is really…"

Ginny rolled her eyes at him.

"It's adorable, Harry. Do you think they've finally, you know," She gave him a significant look.

"I… guess? I dunno, they've both been… I mean, we've all been… sorry." Harry gave up. Where was the use in trying to talk? There was nothing he could say that would make the slightest bit of difference. Heaps of people were dead. And, specifically, Fred was dead.

And that was all there was.

"Don't… look, we just have to- I mean, he would kill me if I didn't snap them like this," She looked anxious, like this was very important somehow. And she was properly looking at him. He was spinning in the worry of her hazel eyes. She was all freckles and anxiety and she was looking at him. Properly.

Like the fog had lifted, like she was Ginny again, like she-

Stop! Just back off. Her brother died, he-

Part of him just wanted to grab hold of her and cry hysterically for about a week at least. But he didn't know how to do that- or even how to say that he felt that way- and obsessing over how damn glowy her hair was was equally useless- so was cataloguing every single freckle…

"Definitely," He said, forcing himself to speak, "Take a few. He'd want you to make sure you'd caught their least attractive angles,"

Her brow lightened, and she gave a barely audible snort.

"True. Reckon I can get a shot that goes straight up Ron's nose?"

"Definitely," He seemed to have got stuck on that word. But this felt like a lifeline, like they were… almost… nearly…

Ginny toed off her shoes and fidgeted with the camera settings, sneaking closer. She was so sure-footed in her rainbow striped socks, so agile, compressed energy in leggings and a Harpies jumper, and he wanted to be up and flying with her, leave all the grief and tragedy behind and just fly and fly until it was just them and the blinding sun…

Funny really. Standing there like an idiot while she snuck up on his best friends as though she were a muggle wildlife photographer. Watching as she slunk down onto her hands and knees and inched forwards on her elbows to take a view that ran straight up Ron's leg… shuffling around sideways to take one that would make it look like Hermione's hair was swallowing Ron's head… standing gingerly over them, almost directly over them, to take one looking down, focussing in on their oblivious unconscious faces… they must have been sleeping heavily, not to notice…

She tiptoed back to him, still grief-marked, but somehow lighter. She looked… like the thrill of sneaking up and not getting caught had sparked a little life into her somehow… She passed him a handful of photos and turned back to take one last shot…

"Do you want to go flying?" He hadn't meant to say it. Or, he had, but not out loud. It had slipped out, blunt and decisive.

The corner of her mouth quirked up.

And she was nodding, and giving him a look that he recognised, one that had often come before she dragged him into an empty classroom… it was a faint echo, but still… she wanted to go flying… and she still felt…

They headed back inside to stow the camera and the wildly silly photos.

Then out to the broomshed, and up into the afternoon, and the air was crisp and fresh and new, and as they raced higher she let out a burst of laughter, and the sound was everything, and he knew they'd be ok.

She'd surprised him: shoulder barged him out of nowhere, nearly knocking him off his broom, startling him, grinning, and she'd held up a snitch, and then the rest of the afternoon was passed in muscle and wind and shouting, ducking and weaving and amicable fighting over the nearly invisible golden ball with its shining wings.

They came back windswept and sunburnt for dinner, and they'd kissed on the doorstep, just once, and she'd threaded her fingers through his, and he felt it this time, that they would be ok. Eventually.

Definitely.

But she faded over dinner.

Grief seeping in.

He felt it too.

Like the magic of the afternoon couldn't change it. They were stuck. They'd always be stuck.

They'd won, technically, but they'd be doomed to this forever. This… knowing, this living with everything that had happened, and everything that would never happen now.

She cornered him on the stairs as he came out of the loo. She looked fierce this time.

"I'm showing them," She said, voice vibrating, "Something good has to come of all this. I just-"

Her eyes filled with tears.

She hadn't let herself cry in front of him, not since… but she didn't vanish this time, just wiped her face on her sleeve.

"Wanna come with? I'm going to give them this one," She held out the little rectangle of colour. It must have been that last shot, because they looked peaceful rather than ridiculous. Sort of sleeping romance. You could hardly see the drool.

"Nice. What're you doing with the others?"

She gave a wet chuckle.

"Oh, those I'm saving for their wedding!"

"Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren't you?"

"Like this ends any other way!"

Unarguable, so he followed her down to the living room, and he couldn't help smiling a little when she tugged at Ron's sleeve and made an imperative gesture with her head, like they had urgent business in another room… and her smug expression when he instinctively glanced over to Hermione, curled up with a book on the other end of the sofa… Ginny nodded, and let him catch Hermione's attention… he touched her foot… he never used to do that…

Ginny seemed to have it well in hand, generating drama out of absolutely nothing. She led them into the kitchen and then with an important and wordless flourish, ushered them all into the pantry. She turned on the lamp, painting them all with a warm glow and casting shadows onto the jars and bottles and bins of flour.

It was cramped and smelled of bread and biscuits and spices.

Harry found he felt safe here.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Hermione's agitated whisper filled the space with mild panic. Harry wondered if she knew she'd grabbed the elbow of Ron's jumper.

"Woah, no, it's not a bad thing," Ginny pulled a face in apology, "Sorry. And, I mean." She glanced at Harry, but he'd just realised how peculiar it was to photograph people sleeping and couldn't work out what to say.

"Uhh…"

"You were both there anyway, so it's not like you don't know, and maybe you do know and this is just- oh Godric, it's a bit weird, isn't it?"

She looked a little conflicted now.

"Uh, yeah," said Harry, struggling to work out how to reassure her, "But it's ok. I mean…"

"Are you pregnant?" demanded Ron, out of nowhere.

"What? No. Definitely not!" Ginny threw Harry a thoroughly stricken look this time, "No, a hundred nos to that. No. I just wanted to show you both this,"

And she held it out.

There was a silence that descended, a sort of velvety quiet, a waiting feeling. Ron and Hermione both leaned forward, as though pulled by the tiny image of their sleeping selves.

"So, we took a nap, what's the big deal?" Ron recovered first, shoving his hands into his pockets defensively.

"It was a very cosy nap," said Ginny pointedly, "Don't you think you look very, er… comfortable?"

"There's nothing wrong with being comfortable," said Hermione sharply. She plucked the photo out of Ginny's hand, and Harry noticed her eyelids flutter as she tried not to look at it again before tucking it into her pocket.

Ginny shrugged.

"Whatever. Just wanted to let you know Harry's bunking in with me tonight. Neither of you have been sleeping lately- except, apparently, with each other, and frankly, me and Harry need a decent rest, it's all pretty exhausting right now."

The silence was different this time. Harry tried to suppress a smile. Neither of them wanted to argue the point with Ginny- the idea of sharing a room was clearly too appealing… but they had to, of course they had to, the alternative was admitting the truth…

"Oh well, that's hardly necessary-"

"We're fine, aren't we, Harry-"

"We're not fine though," said Ginny, eyes flashing, "I need him. Don't you understand? He died. I can't-" She broke off, blinking against sudden tears.

Harry slipped his hand into hers and gave it a squeeze. She clung rather. Relief washed through him.

"Oh, of course, Ginny, I'm so sorry, of course,"

"No sex though," said Ron, attempting a forbidding glare. Hermione whacked him on the arm.

"Ron! It's none of your business, and there's nothing wrong with sex. Do you have to be such a jerk all the time?"

"Yes," he said, starting to look mulish. "She's my sister. I'm obliged."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Honestly."

They left them in the pantry and went upstairs. Harry stopped at Ron's room to grab some pyjamas and Ginny brandished her wand at his camp bed. It squeaked and twanged horribly as she forced it to fold up and firmly shoved it in the corner.

She cast him a slightly guilty look.

"You know they'll just try and weasel out of it. What are they scared of?"

Losing each other?

"What are you scared of?" He asked.

Tears welled up in her eyes again.

Later, in bed, in the dark, wrapped in the smell of her, in the blissful dark and the warmth of her embrace, he kissed her again, a slow, sad kiss filled with all the longing of a year on the run.

"I was so worried you'd meet someone else while you were off hunting horcruxes and I felt like a complete idiot because I was terrified you'd get killed, and you did, and I just, please don't die again, I really don't-"

"Hey," It seemed prudent to interrupt. She was starting to shake. "'S'not just you. I've had myself half-convinced you had a thing with Neville,"

"Neville?!"

"Well… he's a good bloke, Nev, and you know, you were leading the resistance together, and it seemed like you'd got really close-"

"Harry!"

"Yeah?"

"You- you complete dunderhead!"

Harry grinned in the dark.

"You too,"

She sniffed.

"Really?"

"You don't want me to tell you about all those lonely, miserable nights in that tent."

She let out a gurgling laugh and pulled him closer.

"Oh, I absolutely do!"

Hermione

The tumult of emotion hurt her. It was as though she could handle the grief. Or she could handle his touch. Or she could handle Ginny trying to force her hand.

But not all at once.

Hermione had a dizzy, out-of-control, heading-for-disaster feeling.

"She's trying to set us up," she said bluntly, and Ron glanced over from where he'd been ineffectually attempting to make his bed.

He gave the covers a tug that left them wonkily pulled up and sat down.

"She does that sometimes," he said, and she could hear how careful he was being.

She hesitated, heartbeat loud in her head and all the rushing confusion of not knowing whisking round her like a nightmare.

She pulled the little photograph from her pocket and held it out to him.

There was a frightened vulnerability in his gaze that reassured her. It made no sense. Perhaps it was her own feelings reflected back at her. The idea that they were standing on the precipice together.

Hermione sat down next to him, on his bed, and let her leg touch his.

She still felt… touching him still felt like healing.

Ron held the photo gingerly, between fingertips. He was staring at it.

She leaned her head against his arm and stared too.

They looked like lovers on a summer afternoon.

He put his arm around her again.

When she'd gone out looking for him and found him sitting in a pile of cushions, shredding bits of grass and leaves in his restless fingers, eyes faraway and sad, she'd been unable to think of a single thing to say.

She'd sat down beside him.

And the moment he realised that tears were running down her cheeks, he put his arm around her, and it was like a collapse.

They'd just… folded into each other.

She wasn't even sure how long they'd stayed like that before they fell asleep.

Not long, probably.

It had felt enchanted.

Wordless.

When they'd woken up, he'd touched her hair, tentative, gentle. Almost… awed.

So, she knew.

Or, she thought she did.

But that was the danger, wasn't it?

She couldn't afford to be wrong about this, and she couldn't think straight, and this wasn't-

"Wanna see the rest?" He sounded… like he was trying to change the subject. Not that they were really on a subject, exactly.

"What?"

"You know she didn't just take one, right? Accio!"

A pause, then a handful of little polaroid rectangles whipped under the door. He took his arm away and caught them, holding them out for her to sift through.

It was obvious they were supposed to be funny. Weird angles, close-ups of Ron's nose… they weren't though. Not really. Trying too hard maybe. Or maybe she couldn't see past how it had felt. Like the impossible weight of things had been lifted temporarily. Like this was intimate and important and profoundly not funny.

But now he was there and she was there, and he was jogging one leg, that agitated frenetic little movement, and she realised she'd shrunk her own breath down into shallow movement-less inhales and exhales and it was so awful that they couldn't take their time with this, it was horrible somehow, to have this all out in the open, so bare and raw and-

"I can't do it Ron, I want to, but I just- I can't- I do feel- I- very much, but I just…"

Ron let out a breath and she felt his shoulders drop as his knee stopped dancing.

"Me too," he sounded earnest, "I wanted- for ages really- but now that- I just…"

He trailed off and she could feel the tension in him growing, just thinking about it, shoulders rising.

"It's too much at once," she said, tapping the edges of the photos to neaten the pile, "This is about as far as I can go right now, and even then… if it's put in the context of, of something then it makes me panic… can we just… be us? Forget about… being something and just… be?"

She glanced sideways up at him, anxious, fluttery. He was staring into the middle of the floor, but his gaze flicked down to her, blue under gingery lashes.

"Yeah," he treated her to a nervous half-smile, "It's too much pressure,"

"Yes."

A surge of relief. He understood.

Or… maybe he did.

"Do you want to- Hermione, I was thinking- what if- not to do anything, just to be away, y'know, so-"

"Ron?"

He flushed.

"My bed's too small," he said staring at his knees, "Do you want to go to your parents' place? I'm ok sharing a bed, but if we stay here, you're going to have to sleep on top of me. Literally. Ginny's destroyed the fold out, and I've had this bed since I was a kid, trust me, it can't be magicked any bigger."

Air rushed back into her lungs.

"Let's go."

At Hermione's parents' flat

"I still think it's weird," Ron said, "It's like you never lived here,"

"I didn't, not really," Hermione tried to talk around the tightness in her chest. It wasn't a bad thing. It was more that, somehow Ron finding it odd made her feel better about it. In a way that made her want to cry on his chest. Which was out of the question. "We moved here after I started at Hogwarts, so I was only ever here for holidays. Besides, I spent most of those with you. This was always really a guest bedroom. It's just that sometimes, I was the guest."

Ron wrinkled his nose at this, and glanced around the room, mercurial blue eyes taking in the mirrored cupboards, the enormous bed flanked by little tables topped with lamps, everything colour matched white, minty green, or pigeon grey.

"Hermione, there aren't even any books in here,"

"I know," she said, steadily, "It's awful, isn't it,"

"Don't get me wrong, it's really fancy," said Ron, earnestly, "It's just… even when we were here this morning… I guess I just imagined it differently, that's all."

Hermione climbed into bed, underneath the very boringly expensive grey duvet.

It was a very comfortable bed. Real pillows. Pillows that hadn't been in constant use for twenty years. High thread count sheets.

So what if it was like a hotel?

"Tell me what you imagined," she said as he awkwardly clambered in beside her, all feet and elbows.

"Books," he said, "Loads of books. Parchment and quills everywhere. Like when you make yourself a study nest in the library,"

"A what?"

"You know," he flapped a hand, like it was obvious, "You go into research mode and then it's all a cross-referencing maze of books and notes and abandoned glasses of water,"

He reached over to put his wand on the bedside table and turned off the lamp, casting the room into dark grey shadow.

"And I know you had to get rid of family photos, but I guess I thought you'd have muggle things. Gadgets. Roller skates and felt tipped pens. Maybe a foot spa."

"A foot spa?"

"Well, I don't know, do I? My muggle education is a bit lacking,"

"There's probably more muggle gadgets at your house than there are here," Hermione pointed out.

"Yeah. I doubt anyone has a collection of toasters quite like dad's," Ron said reflectively, "But it's not just this room, it's like no-one really lived here. Is that just because you had to send them away?"

Hermione frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Well… there aren't any teeth here."

"Sorry?"

"Well, they do things with teeth, don't they? But there aren't, like, any tooth portraits. Or jars of teeth. Nothing's made of teeth… why are you laughing?"

For all of a second, Hermione thought about explaining properly.

"They don't keep those things at home," she said instead, "I'll take you down to the practice tomorrow, you can have a look."

This seemed to satisfy him, because he was quiet for a moment.

"When you were little… were you very lonely?"

Hermione's breath caught. He sounded worried. As though the idea of her as a kid in a mint-and-grey bedroom without a foot spa was troubling. Even though this hadn't been her bedroom then.

"Yes," she said, remembering evenings of homework at the white table, waiting for her parents to come home, and for the babysitter to turn off the tv and leave. She thought of the Weasleys, and all the hustle and bustle, and the way Ron seemed to be constantly remembered, and constantly forgotten. "Were you?"

Hesitation in the dark.

"Yeah. I mean, I was never alone. But yeah." The rustle of fabric as he ran his hands through his hair. The weight of him beside her on the solidness of the bed. "Do you remember, back in the day, first year even, when Harry had quidditch practice, and it was just us?"

Hanging out in the common room, letting him lure her away from homework and into games of chess and gobstones?

"Yes, of course, why?"

More rustling. Restless limbs.

"Dunno. I guess… I just miss it. Hanging out with you. Just us. Sort of feel like I'm… always trying to go back to that somehow. Stupid, I know."

It was such a nervous tick that, calling himself stupid.

Hermione thought she felt it too, this time. Embarrassed and foolish, maybe. Uncomfortable about the butterflies she'd had on that first Hogsmeade weekend. As though there was something silly about it, about wanting to go somewhere magical with a boy, and just… hang out. Like… like it was irresponsible and frivolous.

Like it was stupid to like someone, and want them to like you back.

She sat up abruptly and turned on the lamp on her side of the bed. Ron flung a hand over his eyes against the light.

"Tell me if I'm saying this wrong," She said, suddenly sure of herself, "There's been a- a possibility of something with us since- well. If not always, at least for quite a while. And if things had been different, if we'd been ordinary, if the worst we'd had to face was exams or your pet rat being eaten-"

"Ha, I wish-"

"-if we hadn't been swept up in helping Harry, then maybe things might've played out differently, we might've had time to- to be different. Instead of experimenting with Polyjuice we could've been-" she cut herself off this time, and knew she was blushing, "I don't want to undo anything we've been through, but it feels like there's another path, and we weren't allowed to take it before, and everyone thinks we've been there already, as though… as though we ought to be able to be- be something, but they don't understand what's at stake."

Ron regarded her thoughtfully. Freckles and consideration.

"What if we move in here, for a bit?"

Hermione blinked at him.

"Isn't that- I mean… you think we should move in together?"

"Well, no, not exactly. I mean, yes. But… not really. What if we sleep here, and everyone can think what they think, but we don't actually have to do anything. And maybe it turns out to be something or maybe not, but at least we'll have some space to ourselves to work it out. Plus, this is an incredibly comfortable bed, and I may have to sleep here regardless. Hermione, this bed is long enough. My feet don't hang off the end."

"It is a very comfortable bed,"

"It's a very comfortable bed."

Hermione turned out the light and settled back against the pillow. As the tension started to ease, she found herself restless. Shifting, rustling, like Ron had been. She rolled onto her stomach and flipped her hair out of the way, stretching her legs and arms long, taking up space.

The trouble was the tension that she couldn't put down. On the one hand, it was a mattress the likes of which she hadn't experienced in well over a year. On the other hand, despite deciding not to do anything about it, she was still in bed with Ron Weasley and they'd talked about it.

He'd sort of implied that they should let his family think they were-

That they were-

That they were having sex.

And she couldn't even think that out loud in her own head without stumbling.

Was it stupid to feel like a twelve year old with a crush? That really, what she wanted from him was that he notice her and spend time with her, and maybe hold her hand sometimes?

"I think we should have breakfast here as well," she said, realising she hadn't officially agreed to the plan.

"Yeah, good idea."

It wasn't enough. She wanted to ask, but it felt stupid again. And confusing. Before, in his bedroom, touch had felt stilted. Nice, but also awkward. In the orchard it had felt completely natural, like falling asleep, but they'd been so exhausted… it was as though grief had knocked the awkward edges off them. And she didn't want to be overwhelmed by the physicality of him now, he was too much, too Ron, if he was too close to her it was like being drugged and it was too intense, too fast-

"Where are you?"

His hand reaching for hers in the dark.

"Right here," Clumsy fingers, hands curling.

"Oh, ok. Um. Goodnight?"

She smiled in the dark. This was pretty much where they'd left off. Hands loosely held for a moment. And drifting apart again. Just… checking in, maybe. Orienting.

"Goodnight,"

It must have only been minutes before she fell asleep.

In the morning, when she woke up, Ron stretched his long, long arms and grinned at her, and Hermione grinned back, feeling stupid, but in a nice way.

"I like waking up next to you," said Ron dopily, "Whether you want to date me or not,"

Hermione buried her face in her pillow for a moment, to process the giddy feeling. Then she looked straight at him.

"I do want to date you, Ron Weasley."

His eyes widened, a hot blush stole up his neck, and his grin widened.

"Brilliant!"

They spent all of breakfast shy and grinning like idiots and clumsily dropping things.