Not Yet

A/N: Thank you so much for all of your favorites, follows, and reviews. It's so rewarding to see your appreciation for the work!

I wrote this story very early on as a gift for TMBlue (who absolutely crushes all things tent fic-related) for being such a huge help to me as a new writer and reviewing several of my chapters. I really don't think this work would've gotten off the ground without your help, and you have my eternal appreciation for being so welcoming and kind with your feedback!

A big thank you as well to accio-broom for offering thoughts on this chapter before I published it; your dedication is unparalleled.

Enjoy the tent fluff!

Dark red and brown leaves crunched under his feet as Ron stepped out of the tent and into the crisp autumn air. He squinted his eyes as he watched the sun setting over a distant ridge. A stiff breeze was blowing fallen leaves all around the campsite, fresh and bracing against his cheeks.

Harry was sitting on the ground a metre or so away from the entrance, keeping watch, the silver locket of Salazar Slytherin hanging from his neck. They had been living in this tent for nearly two months. Every day they moved again, and they were already nearly out of the food that Hermione had thought to pack. Dinner was eerily reminiscent of the previous night's dinner, which itself was similar to that of the night before. Thin mushroom soup. It was even less appetizing than it sounded.

"Dinner's served, mate," he said, brimming with sarcastic enthusiasm. "Bon appetit."

Harry groaned as he took the warm bowl from Ron's hands and looked at it with disappointment. "What I wouldn't give for one meal back at Hogwarts."

"Ugh, don't remind me."

A few minutes passed, Ron still hovering behind Harry. It was silent save for the occasional slurping from Harry.

"Anything else I can do for you, Ron? I'm trying to keep watch here."

Ron turned away and said nothing.

"She's still mad at you, isn't she?"

Ron and Hermione had been bickering more than usual lately, arguing over every aspect of their living conditions. He knew that this was hardly going to be a vacation, but would it kill them to apparate somewhere closer to some actual food for a change? Or was thin mushroom soup the best they would ever get?

Ron nodded. "Think so. This just isn't what I'm used to. I wish...I wish she could just understand that a little bit. I just hoped we'd be...I don't know, making some progress by now."

"You and me both, mate. Her, too, I'm sure."

Ron could tell that Harry was trying to be sympathetic, but his voice had an edge of annoyance in it as well.

"Guess you're right."

They both stared off into the forest as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. The wind picked up and Ron shivered. Harry pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and took another sip of broth in a vain attempt to warm up.

"I'd better go back in and eat. It is better than nothing, I s'pose. G'night, Harry."

"Night, Ron," Harry said, eyes still scanning the trees for signs of movement.

Ron ducked his head as he passed back through the open flap of the tent.

The inside was dimly lit, only a few bluebell candle jars burning on the small table next to the kitchen. Hermione was sitting at the table, back to Ron, staring straight down and running her spoon through her soup over and over again. Tiptoeing over, he sat across from her where another bowl had been placed. He glanced at his dinner and gave a small sigh.

"What?" Hermione said, glaring at him through narrowed eyes.

"I didn't say anything!"

"I'd like to see you do better, Ronald! I'm sick of this as well, but at least I'm trying to make the best of it!"

His eyes dropped back down to the table. "I know you are."

They continued to eat in silence, the only noise coming from the clinking of silverware on the ceramic bowls. Honestly, he'd rather she be screaming at him than keeping to herself. He hated the silences. Talking with Hermione was one of the most reassuring constants in his life. She always had a way of making him feel better and feel valued, even when they were fighting. The worst, most depressing times in his life had always been the times that he couldn't talk with her. Third year came to mind, when he had suspected Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers. Or fourth year after the Yule Ball. Or sixth year when he was...well, when he had made a huge mess of things.

He wished he knew how to make this right, that he knew what he could do so that she would talk with him again. Deep down, he knew he was being a bit of a prat. Nobody, Hermione included, knew the answer to this test any more than he did. If anything, it probably frightened her more than it did him because she always knew the answer. They were in uncharted territory, deep in the woods, with no support besides each other.

It had been obvious that she had needed support more than ever these last few weeks, but he couldn't seem to get out of his own way to be the one to help her. Every time he tried to apologize or cheer her up, he ended up finding a way to complain about some damn thing or another, and they were right back to fighting. Some Felix Felicis would come in awfully handy.

He was jolted out of his preoccupied state when Hermione pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping across the floor. Picking up her empty bowl, she stalked past Ron into the kitchen. With a sigh, he started twirling the mushrooms with his spoon. Suddenly, her bowl crashed into the metal sink and shattered into pieces. He whirled around. Hermione was leaning over the sink, head in her hands. After a moment, she reached for her back pocket and removed her wand, then pointed it at the bowl and quietly murmured, "Reparo."

"Are...are you OK, Hermione?" It was the best verbal olive branch he could offer.

She straightened herself up, grabbed a sponge in one hand, and picked up the newly mended bowl to wash it.

"I'm fine."

Ron turned back to his soup, eyes downcast, and brought another spoonful to his mouth. As he grimaced and chewed the rubbery mushroom, she hummed a song behind him. A quizzical look came over his face. Hermione never sings. He sat and listened to the melody, a tingling feeling shooting down his back at the pleasing timbre of her voice. It's actually kind of nice.

The humming ceased a minute or so later, and a hush fell over the tent once again. Giving up on the final mouthfuls of soup he just couldn't stomach, he got up and started walking over to his bunk, freezing in the middle of the tent when a faint sob came from behind him. A muffled sniffing sound from the kitchen confirmed his suspicions. Merlin's beard, I've made her cry again. A paralysis came over him. More than anything, he wanted to go to her, to do whatever he could to help her feel better. However, he had no idea whether that was the right thing to do; after all, she was probably crying because he had been such a prat to her.

It took all of his Gryffindor bravery to spin around and step back towards the kitchen.

"Hermione?"

Her only reply was a louder sniff and a turn of her shoulder away from him in an attempt to hide her face.

"Hermione, look, I'm so sorry. Reckon I've been a rubbish friend to you...to you and Harry. I know you're both trying your best to solve this, and I'm not really helping very much. I...I promise I'll try harder, though. Really try hard to think about where we could go next."

She remained motionless, standing at the kitchen sink, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Ron's heart sunk in his chest and his shoulders slumped as he realized that he wasn't going to be able to fix this.

"I suppose I'll give you some space if you like."

Before he could turn to go back to his bunk, Hermione whirled around and closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Looking back in surprise, he had to steady himself to keep from falling as she crashed into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her head buried against his chest, and the wetness of her tears spread across the front of his shirt. The reaction confused him, but this was what he wanted; she was letting him be there for her. He enveloped her in his arms, resting his left hand on her back and smoothing her hair with his right.

Shaking sobs overcame her as she remained ensconced in his embrace. Her hands crawled up his back until he could feel her clutching the back of his jumper in both fists. Settling his head on top of hers, he pulled her closer.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he whispered into her hair. "I'll do better."

After several moments, Hermione sniffed, took a deep breath, and pushed back from him slightly. Her eyelashes fluttered, still wet with tears, as she looked upwards at him. Candlelight was glowing in her big brown eyes.

"It's not you. I know why you're frustrated, and I don't blame you for feeling that way. I feel that way, too. I wish you'd try to keep it to yourself occasionally, but...I do understand." Her eyes darted away as if she was embarrassed by the disclosure.

"Oh." It was all he could manage to say, breathing a mental sigh of relief to know that he wasn't responsible for causing Hermione pain.

He watched as she chewed on her bottom lip, her expression glazed over, clearly lost in thought. Never once did her grip loosen as her eyes began to water again. With a slow circular motion, he moved his thumb around the middle of her back, hoping that she would continue to confide in him, to allow him to prove to her that he cared.

Finally, she looked back up at him and continued through staggered breaths. "It's my parents...I'm...I just...I really miss them."

Tears spilled from her eyes and flowed down her cheeks.

"It's ridiculous, really. I know...know they're safe. But...I can't...I just can't know for sure. And it's not like we can check. I don't...I don't even know where they..."

Breaking down again, she tumbled back into him, bawling muffled cries into his chest. He removed his hand from her hair and wrapped both arms securely around her shoulders. As she nestled her head under his chin, he realized how...comfortable it felt to him. Previous years at school flashed through his mind as he remembered how he used to be terrified of Hermione when she would cry, how he never knew what to do when she was sad. Of course, he knew what he wanted to do, but he could never take that leap before.

But something had changed in their relationship over the last several months. He wanted to be there for her in the hardest of times, and, more and more, she was allowing him in. Seeing her cry was still torture for him, of course, but he wasn't as scared anymore. He wasn't afraid that she wouldn't want him in those moments; she had proven that she was willing to accept his comforting words and actions. He wasn't afraid that he wouldn't know what to do, either. Somehow, it felt as natural to him as breathing. Most importantly, he didn't have to be afraid that he would accidentally reveal how much he cared about her. He wanted her to know.

"It's not ridiculous at all. You said you sent them to Australia, yeah? I'm sure they're safe there."

"I planted the idea, but...I don't...I'm not sure if they made it, and...and I have no idea how to find them!" she howled, staccato sobs echoing throughout the tent.

The realization smacked Ron in the face. He had assumed that Hermione knew exactly where her parents were. But of course she didn't know. She couldn't know. It wouldn't be safe for them if someone could...get the information out of her. A shudder passed through him at the thought.

"I'm sure we'll find them. Straight away, as soon as we're done with this bloody mission."

Hermione's eyes lit up. Sniffing, she blinked a few times and raised her head to meet his eyes.

"We?"

"Yes, we. Err...if you'd like, that is."

She snuggled her cheek back against his chest.

"That sounds lovely."

A wonderful feeling permeated his entire body as she smiled into his chest. He gave her a light squeeze and placed his chin back on top of her bushy, untamed hair.

"I know how you feel, you know. I worry about my family as well."

"I know you do. I worry about them, too."

Unbeknownst to him, tears were starting to well up in his own eyes. He had never realized how much he had taken his family for granted. Even though they argued, he knew that they would do anything for him. All he needed to do was send an owl. The past few months had been immeasurably difficult, and not being able to talk with his mum or dad, or even Fred or George, made things harder still.

If it was bad for him, he could only imagine how difficult it was for Hermione. At least he knew where his parents were, even if he couldn't see them or speak to them. She had to let her parents go entirely and simply...hope for the best. Hugging her tighter, tears fell down his cheeks and mixed into her hair.

"I g-guess we'll have to be...be each other's family f-for now," he whispered.

"You think so? I'd like that."

"I know you're a proud Granger and all, but, you know, I've sort of...sort of thought of you as an...honorary Weasley...for ages."

He straightened up and looked down, locking eyes with her, not bothering to wipe his eyes. It didn't bother him at all if she saw him cry. His heart leapt as she beamed back up at him and lifted her hand to wipe a tear off of his cheek with her thumb.

"I would love to be a Weasley."

It was the best sentence Ron had ever heard. He had to force his brain to accept the words in context, but he couldn't help but consider the alternate interpretations. Smiling back at her, he pulled her into one more tender hug, breathing in her woodsy scent deeply. Despite the melancholy mood in the tent, at that moment he was swimming in delirious joy.

As they separated, Ron slid his hands down Hermione's arm and captured her hands. He held them between his own, gave them one final squeeze, then reluctantly dropped them.

"So...if you don't mind my asking...what made you think about them?" he asked.

Hermione turned her head and bit her lower lip, holding back a smile. "It's silly, really."

"Silly?"

Glancing to the side to meet his gaze, she sent him a coy smile. "Well, did you hear the song I was singing earlier?"

"Oh, the humming? Sure, it was nice, actually."

"It's a song that my parents made up when I was young. It was my job to do the washing up after dinner. Sometimes I was...obstinate. I didn't really care for the work, so I always tried to scarper before they could force me to do it."

He playfully recoiled in mock horror. "Hermione Granger, leaving her tasks uncompleted?"

"Ha ha, Ronald. I liked playing with my toys and dolls as a child, too, you know. Anyway, my parents helped me compose...a little song. Something they could sing with me while I cleaned the dishes after dinner. I loved that song. I was so excited to sing it each night that I forgot that I was actually just doing chores."

An idea popped into his head as he looked down at the table to where he had left his soup bowl.

"You know, it just so happens that I have a dirty dish here. Maybe...you could teach me the song? Because, honestly, I'd rather be playing with my toys and dolls, too..."

She stared back at him and narrowed her eyes, trying to hold a reproachful look. Within seconds, though, her face broke into a smile and she started giggling. He laughed as well, and she placed her hand on his back and gave him a shove toward the kitchen.

"Fine, I'll teach you."

They stood next to each other in front of the sink and Ron picked up the sponge, dumping the rest of the soup in the sink.

With a grin of anticipation, he rolled up his sleeves. "I'm ready."

"You have to promise not to take the mickey, Ronald. Remember, I was a young child."

"Right, right, I know. The song, please."

Hermione nervously glanced at him, and began singing,

"Pots and pans,

Cleany clean,

We must make them shine and gleam!

Carrot peel,

Potato skin

Scrape them right into the bin!

Washy wash,

This dishy dish,

Wipe off all that meat and fish!

Forky fork,

Spoony spoon,

Go to bed beneath the moon!"

A wistful expression came over her, and a single tear coursed down her face. He put the bowl down in the sink and dried his hands before turning and taking a step closer to her, cupping her cheek in his large palm. Pressure filled his hand as she leaned into it and looked up, moving closer to him as well, studying his facial features.

"It made me laugh every time," she said.

Inching his free hand forward, electricity shot up his arm as his fingertips came into gentle contact with her palm. He dragged his nails up her hand and felt her lace their fingers together as they both leaned forward, their foreheads pressing together and their eyes fluttering shut.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For trusting me...with this…"

"Of course I trust you."

"I...well, I…" For years, he had thought about finishing that sentence. There were only two more words that he needed to say. Seven more letters. It would be so easy. And he knew it was true. He'd known for a long time if he was being honest with himself. He loved her.

But it wasn't the right time. There was too much going on, too much to do, and way too much uncertainty. Sure, she had told him that she liked him more than a friend, but if she didn't feel the same way as him, he would be devastated. There would be no way he could help them complete the tasks at hand. And if she did...that almost felt more dangerous. He would never be able to focus on anything but her. Both possibilities were equally unacceptable.

"Yes?" She stepped back so she could see him more clearly, eyebrows starting to furrow.

Not yet, he thought to himself, not yet.

"I trust you, too."

She smiled back, eyeing him skeptically for a moment before picking up a towel to dry the dishes that she had washed earlier.

Turning back to the sink, picked up the sponge to scrub his bowl.

"It's a nice song. Maybe you can teach it to our-" he started to say, stopping himself a second too late. He cleared his throat before continuing, "-You know, teach it to your kids someday."

All he could do was continue to stare down into the sink, focusing intently on a bubble of soap. He could feel every part of his face burning up, hoping that she had missed his slip of the tongue. Truthfully, he had a hard time not thinking that way sometimes, but he couldn't let her know that.

The few moments of complete silence told him that she had, in fact, heard everything. Summoning his courage, he chanced a peek over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of her face. A fragment of hope showed itself as he watched her turn to the side and look down at her shoes, the corners of her lips curling up just a bit. Her cheeks and ears were flushed as well.

She lightly cleared her throat and started walking toward the entrance of the tent. "While you're in a cleaning mood, I think I'll go collect Harry's dish."

"Good thinking," he replied. When she stepped out into the cold, he wondered how much longer he could go on keeping his feelings to himself. As he had just demonstrated in spectacularly awkward fashion, he was prone to letting things slip. He wanted the time to be right, but living in the same tent with her for months on end was making him impatient. The war couldn't end soon enough.

Hermione walked back in and handed Harry's bowl to Ron.

"Thanks," he said, rinsing it out in the warm water.

"And Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I will teach them."