A/N- Thank you everyone for your support and comments, and a huge thank you to ReallyBeth for being an amazing beta!

Chapter 3: Midnight Not-Quite Confessions

Ron's family was safe. His mouth made a noise of relief that he knew he couldn't adequately describe, even with the help of an auto-answer quill. He felt the tension release from his body as he plopped down onto the sofa.

Hermione sat right next to him, her body so close to his, and grabbed his arm. Despite the Death Eater attack and the Ministry falling, Ron couldn't help but chalk this day up to be a good one overall–his family was safe and Hermione was so near that he could smell her perfume. She normally smelled, well, clean. It was a great smell, he couldn't deny it, but this smell, this floral whatever, smelled the same way it felt to down half a dozen butterbeers.

She was so…intoxicating…that he barely registered Harry leaving. But then, all of a sudden, Ron realised—he was alone, with Hermione fuckin' Granger. She was still pressed up against him from their earlier hug. He could feel her torso, all of her torso, up against his.

He might have to kick Harry out of the bathroom; he was in desperate need of a cold shower.

He tried to inconspicuously move his hips away from hers while acting like it was totally normal to pull a pillow over your lap. He didn't dare look over at Hermione, terrified to see a look of understanding in her eyes. Instead, he fiddled with the hem of the pillow, trying to urge the blood in his body back up to his head.

"Harry doesn't have his toothbrush," Hermione said, sounding strained.

Ron tried not to look too surprised at her unexpected comment. There were lots of things going through his head right now and not a single one involved Harry or his toothbrush.

"I should go bring it to him." She said it in a way that almost sounded like a question instead of a statement.

Ron just grunted in agreement, afraid his voice would crack if he talked.

As soon as Hermione was out of sight, he readjusted, took a deep breath, and hoped to Merlin that he wasn't as transparent as he felt.

There was no way that Ron was going to sleep in one of the spooky-arse bedrooms if he could help it. He would never admit it, but every time he'd stayed at Grimmauld Place he had nightmares. It wasn't his fault that the Black's chose wallpaper that looked eerily like spiders climbing up the wall. The last summer they had stayed here, Ron had been thankful when Harry had arrived, not just because he missed his best mate, but also because it meant he didn't have to sleep in that room alone.

He had been this close to turning his wand into a night light. But if the twins had seen that, well, he'd have been better off dead.

"Maybe we should sleep in the sitting room," Hermione offered. "That way, we can all be in the same place, just in case…"

"Sounds good to me," Ron said, a little too eagerly. He was glad he didn't have to be the one to suggest it.

Harry nodded his head. Ever since his trip to the loo, Harry had been looking especially green and had been suspiciously quiet. Ron assumed that it was from the stress, and he knew better than to pry when Harry was in one of his moods.

"I packed sleeping bags," Hermione told them as she pulled them out of her tiny bag.

Of course, you did, Ron thought to himself, I bet you packed the whole bloody Burrow.

Ron caught the sleeping bag that Hermione tossed to him and began unravelling it. Much to his dismay, Hermione began laying hers down on the ground.

"You should take the sofa," Ron said.

"No, it's alright," Hermione waved him off.

"Really, Hermione, you should take the sofa."

"I'm fine," Hermione said, this time with a slight tremor to her voice.

Ron took a step back and wrinkled his brows. He didn't have a clue as to why she was miffed at his suggestion.

"I really think—," he was cut off.

"Why?" Hermione asked with a fire in her eyes, "because I'm a girl?"

"Because you're the only one who will bloody fit!" Ron yelled without thinking. He really didn't want to start a fight. Not now, not with everything that was going on–not when things between them were going so well.

He braced himself for her rebuttal. He figured she'd call him that word she used when he had suggested trading chores so she could fold laundry instead of weeding mum's flowers. Mishonganilly? mysonganistic?— he couldn't remember exactly.

But instead of being told off, Hermione apologised. Quietly, and under her breath, but still an apology. Her shoulders were hunched and her head was bowed as she walked over to the sofa.

Ron wasn't sure that this was better than a fight, with her being sad and all, but at least it meant they didn't have to row.

He sidestepped, as wide as his lanky legs would allow so that he could place his sleeping bag right up next to the sofa. Again, he tried to make this seem normal, as if he were always this close to the sofa. With a nervous cough, he sat down, trying to look as cool and collected as he could as he wormed his long body down the sleeping bag.

"Sorry," he heard Hermione say, more loudly this time, but still in a whisper. "I shouldn't have assumed."

"Well, you know what they say about people who assume…" Ron smiled, trying to ease the tension while also trying to ignore the pang he felt in his chest as he said the phrase. It was something his dad always said.

Hermione smiled softly and rested her head on her pillow. He saw her eyes flitter over to Harry's resting form. Harry was about as far away from them as he could be in the tiny sitting room, his body facing away from them.

"How long has he been reconnected with Voldemort?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Not long," Ron lied.

Hermione pursed her lips, and Ron knew that she wouldn't easily let this go.

"It's not good," Hermione stated.

"I know."

"He could plant false memories. Voldemort could see into Harry's mind…"

"I know," Ron said in a sympathetic voice as he instinctively reached for Hermione's hand to comfort her.

Ron had been doing this—comforting her, holding her hand, giving her hugs—since the beginning of this summer. He didn't know what had changed, or why he suddenly had the balls to reach out to her. Even though he felt like a bloody idiot every time he did it, and figured that Hermione would start finding him grotesque, slap him, or worse, ignore him all together, he hadn't stopped.

Much to his delight, she didn't pull away or look at him with disgust. Instead, she gave his hand a slight squeeze.

"I'm scared," she whispered out of nowhere.

He knew she wasn't talking about Harry's connection to You-Know-Who anymore. Or, at least she wasn't just talking about that. It was everything—the Horcruxes, the war, the Ministry, their families.

He felt it too.

He wanted to grab her, pull her into his arms, and never let her go. He wanted to dig through the blasted Earth and hide her away, to make sure that no one could ever touch her. He wanted them to be far away from here. To be far from the dusty furniture, creaky doors, and haunted walls. But most of all, he wanted to be with her.

Ron knew it. He had known it for a while. He didn't think of Hermione as a friend. Not really. She was…his everything. He didn't—couldn't live without her.

He wanted to confess all of this to her.

But, Harry snorted in his sleep, bringing Ron out of his reverie.

He couldn't do any of that right now, he knew.

So instead, he squeezed her hand back, trying to signal to her all that he felt in one tiny gesture.

"Me too."