A little drabble inspired by the song "Run" by Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran. Written for accio-broom's birthday :).

After The War

There's a chain around your throat, a piece of paper where I wrote
"I'll wait for you"
There's a key on the chain, there's a picture in a frame
Take it with you

So you laugh like a child, and I'll sing like no one cares
No one to be, no one to tell,
I could see this view a hundred times
Pale blue sky reflected in your eyes
So give me a reason and don't say no, no

And run, like you'd run from the law
Darling, let's run, run from it all
We can go like they're trying to chase us
Go where no one else is, run

— Run, Taylor Swift ft. Ed Sheeran

"I have a birthday present for you."

Ron glances across the bed to see his best friend — maybe more than best friend — carefully averting her eyes toward his vibrant orange comforter. Her cheeks are glowing pink.

She's already been visiting for a few days, yet it doesn't feel like long enough. As much as Ron hates to admit it, he cherishes the time in the summer before Harry joins them. Knowing that as soon as the speckled git arrives, everything will happen at once — from prepping the wedding to Horcrux hunt planning, they'll have to hold back and act like normal. No more being content lying around on his Chudley Cannons bedspread, pretending to be okay with the fact that they're not quite touching.

"It's not my birthday."

Hermione chuckles and flips onto her back. Ron's tempted to reach out and run a finger down her arm — it's so close — but the mere thought of her rejecting his touch stops him. "Yeah, well. I sort of missed your birthday last year."

"No you didn't," he says. "You were there." He doesn't want to say it, but just her being there in the hospital wing after their months-long row was better than any superficial gift he'd ever received. Much better than that stupid necklace that Lavender had gotten him for Christmas.

Hermione reaches into her pocket and pulls out an orange-wrapped gift box, just as large as the palm of his hand. "Here," she says as she slides it across the bed.

"You really didn't have to —"

"I wanted to."

As soon as Ron begins to fumble with the wrapping paper, Hermione interrupts. "It's kind of a joke—"

"A joke?"

"But it's also not."

Hermione is usually much more eloquent than this.

"As long as it's not a necklace." He regrets his words the moment he opens the box and a necklace tumbles out onto the blanket between them. Ron usually hates necklaces — at least he hated the one Lavender gave him — but he already loves this one. This one is sleek and subtle, an unassuming oval instead of a heart, and it's free of engravings, gaudy decor, or 'my sweetheart' carvings. It's very Ron. "You got me a necklace," he laughs.

"Open it."

On her command, Ron tugs at the clasp. It flips open to reveal a motionless photograph of the pair of them. His arm wraps around her shoulder and they're both beaming at the camera. Hermione stands on her tiptoes so that their cheeks press together. It's from fifth year, the pre-Lavender days. There's something so charming about the stillness of the muggle photograph. Their smiles are static, preserving a snapshot of intimacy and happiness from simpler times.

"I know it's silly to give you a necklace. You hated it when Lavender got you one."

It becomes clearer then, even though it always sort of was. It's easy to love a gift when you love the giver. He can't express that to Hermione right now, however.

"I just wanted to see if you'd like it when I gave you one," she continues. This time, her voice is muffled by the pillow as she avoids his gaze.

"I love it."

Hermione lifts her head and glances over at Ron, and once again, they're so close. He's spent his whole life wishing his bed was larger, but right now, for the first time, he wishes the opposite. What if he just leans in and kisses her? If she responds well, it would be worth the potential humiliation. But if she doesn't?

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, with the tone of someone who already knows the answer.

There are so many things he wants to say. I'm thinking about kissing you. I'm wishing this bed were smaller. I'm glad Harry's not here.

We should just run away together.

But he can't say any of those things, so instead he reaches a hand across the bed and interlaces his fingers with hers. He turns to look at her and she's already staring right back, his pale blue eyes reflected in her chocolate brown ones.

"After the war," he answers, hoping that his deeper meaning is clear. Everything will be different after the war. They won't have to worry about getting killed, and suggestions like 'let's run from it all' will be romantic rather than selfish.

Just then, the shrill voice of his mother echoes up the stairs, breaking the silence and reminding them of the very reason they still have to wait. "Ron! Hermione! Harry's here!"

How great.

"After the war," she repeats. Her squeeze of his hand suggests that she understands exactly what he means by those words.