That night, Hermione dreamed a dream that was not really a dream, but a technicolor memory.
She was back at Hogwarts. Voldemort had been vanquished, but true peace was still on a distant horizon. Witches and wizards were flashes of faces, frantically searching for loved ones. Ron set out with the remaining Order members to secure the castle's perimeter while Hermione helped the healers in the Great Hall.
The sun rose and set again, but Hermione had not slept. Time became soft and malleable, a tangible putty drooping thick and heavy around her limbs. Sheer adrenaline alone kept her from collapsing. She applied bandages to the wounded and cradled the dying, until from behind her, a low voice hummed against her ear, pulling her out of her fugue.
"Hermione, your arm. It's bleeding."
A hand found her shoulder and a forehead settled against her nape. She laid her cheek on the hand for some time, and after regaining a bit of strength, turned to face the voice. Ron was covered in dust and blood. Tears had cut deep tunnels down his dirt encrusted cheeks, the mud cracking like dried riverbeds. She looked down at her arms, comprehending her own body for the first time in days.
"My arms are fine, the blood," her voice went weak, "It's not… it's not mine. The blood. It's not…"
"There is a slash along the back over here. It needs to be cleaned," Ron said delicately.
Hermione started to shake. All she could do was stare at him, shivering, mouth slightly ajar. There had been a battle and all she could see was blood.
"Please, Hermione," Ron pleaded, "Let's go. Let me take care of you."
Hermione gave a shaky nod, not sure if she was capable of anything more. She felt like lead falling through the sky. Ron grabbed some supplies: a small bucket, bandages, a couple clean rags, and a container of an unlabeled green salve. Taking her hand in his, he silently guided her from the hall.
In all her memories, Hermione never remembered Hogwarts being so silent and still. Staircases were immobile and statuelike while empty portraits hung unevenly on their nails. They snaked their way past fallen buttresses and broken windows until Hermione finally realized they were in the North Tower. Ron pulled down the trap door and helped Hermione climb the ladder to the Divination classroom.
The ceiling was gaping, blasted away by hexes and spells. The starry night above was on display as if it were a marvelous piece of art eagerly waiting to be admired. Hermione was sure she had never seen that many stars before. Ron went over to a splintered cabinet and started pulling out pillows and mothy blankets.
"The common room is packed. We cleared this area earlier and I don't think anyone will be bothering us. We should be able to get some rest up here," Ron said as he made a makeshift bed on the floor.
Once he was done, Hermione sat cross-legged in front of him. She winced as Ron removed her jacket and peeled away fabric from inflamed wounds. Her shirt was torn and hung loosely on her body. Ron aimed his wand at the bucket he brought from the Great Hall.
"Aguamenti," Ron recited, and the bucket filled with fresh water.
Wetting a clean rag, he started with her face. Stains of battle, sooty and black, slowly washed away. Ron kissed the bruise at her exposed shoulder and ran his hands under her shirt, following the slender curve of her spine towards her neck. Hermione lifted her arms as Ron moved the cloth up over her head. He continued tending to her wounds, dabbing the damp rag against the gashes and scrapes, making sure to apply the healing salve in healthy amounts. Hermione swayed; her eyes closed against the weight of the night.
Finally, his lips found hers. The kiss was given easily and without a thought.
"Ron…" Hermione's voice trailed, husky and strained. She said nothing more, but Ron understood. Their lips met again, the kiss deep but unhurried. The moment expanded before them, open and wide, time now a luxury that they could miraculously afford.
Hermione felt like laughing in the face of time, that loose and fickle thing. Yesterday it felt like an adversary, something to be beaten. But that night they indulged in the excess of it, greedily taking what was once not guaranteed.
Fingers flew through hair, grasping to keep the other close. Ron dragged his hands down Hermione's back and unclasped her bra. He kissed her collarbone as the straps fell from her shoulders to the ground like unfettered garland. Pulling back, he drank in her beauty before he fumbled with the button of her jeans. Ron's fingers traveled along the waistband leaving his thumbs to caress her hips. Their lips crashed together again and in a slow, smooth movement, Ron pinned her beneath him. Together, they wriggled out of the rest of their clothes, baring themselves to each other under the soft glow of the moon.
"Are you sure?" He asked, his face searching.
"Yes," she breathed. After all they had been through, it felt right to her, there with Ron, to cross the final threshold into adulthood.
As he entered her, she felt only a soft pinch, another pain to accompany another loss. Yet how monumentally small it felt compared to pain that came with war. Ron watched her carefully, searching for a sign of discomfort, but her face did not waver. He slowly withdrew himself, taking time to kiss her jaw, her chest, and each finger on her hand, before he continued his steady motion.
For a long time after, they held each other, tightly and earnestly. A warm breeze sailed through the cavernous opening overhead, sweeping across the walls and along the wooden floors, carrying the smell of fresh grass and blooming flowers, mint tea leaves and old parchment paper. Hermione breathed in the heady scent lingering in the air and looked back up to the stars. They twinkled brilliantly and resolutely as if it were just another carefree summer night, and Hermione realized how happy she was to still be alive.
"Ron, are you still awake?" Hermione asked. Her voice was unnaturally high as panic welled in her chest.
"Yes," Ron murmured as he planted a sweet kiss behind her ear.
"I'm scared I won't ever be able to fall asleep again."
"No," he confirmed, "You won't. I'll make sure of it."
No, Hermione thought, Wait, that's not how this ends…
Hermione tried to hang on to the dream, to fix the ending, but blackness consumed her mind. The nothingness swirled and morphed, an amalgamation of images swimming in her vision. A laughing face, a suitcase, deep blue eyes under red hair. She woke with a start. Each day she tried to empty her heart of its sadness only for it to be renewed in the dark hours of the night.
Knowing she would not be able to fall back to sleep, Hermione got up and made herself another cup of tea.