A little one shot I wrote a while back and am only publishing now! A DH missing moment. I hope you all enjoy!

Sorry

He waited until he heard the soft snores of Harry before he dared move. Harry was a light sleeper at the best of times, and it was even worse when they were cooped up in the same tent with one another, on edge from a possible attack. Every crunch of a leaf, every rustle of the tent flap startled all of them awake.

Yes, he could set a charm to prevent that, but he was on a thin line with his friends at the moment, and he didn't think putting up charms to stop Harry being alerted to possible danger would do anything in earning his forgiveness.

So, he just tiptoed out of the camp bed, pausing a moment to confirm that Hermione wasn't in her bed. She wasn't. She was outside, keeping watch, and he knew there would be no way he'd be able to sleep until he settled things with her.

She was upset with him, and he couldn't blame her. From her perspective, he'd abandoned her and Harry when they had needed him the most. He'd got up and left and gone back to the comfort of his family, leaving the two of them vulnerable and alone. He'd be angry too, if she'd done it to him.

He hoped to explain things to her, to help her understand that he hadn't abandoned them, though. He'd Disapparated when he was angry, worn down by the locket and the awful things it whispered to him when he wore it around his neck, but he'd wanted to come back to them, and would have, had he not Apparated into the hands of Snatchers.

He'd been desperately trying to think of a way to explain to her that it hadn't been some heroic escape from them, because he knew she wouldn't appreciate that, but, well, he'd fought off a dozen of them single-handedly and lived to tell the tale. Surely, under any other circumstance, that was worth something.

Still, he needed to treat his words to her with respect, otherwise their relationship — whatever that was — would never be repaired.

As quietly as he could, he pushed back the tent flap and peered outside, searching for Hermione. She was holed up on a fallen log with a blanket wrapped tight around her and a jar of firelight sitting next to her. He couldn't help but smile at the sight of her, feeling his heart betray him with a flutter that had become a nuisance over the years. Things with her would be so much easier if he didn't care so damn much about what happened to her.

Her back was facing him, and he contemplated sneaking up behind her, but she was edgy already — and her anger at him wouldn't help the matter — so he thought it better to alert her of his presence well before he reached her.

"Care for company?"

She jumped up, almost knocking over the jar of light. She spun, wand raised, but when she saw it was him, her wand lowered and her face hardened.

That was something, he thought. She didn't want to hex him into the next forest, or send canaries to attack him again. But she didn't appreciate him being there, either.

"What?" she asked icily, "you don't think I can look after myself?" She turned away from him, sitting back on the log.

"I think you can take care of yourself better than anyone." He took a step closer, and when she didn't stop him, came the rest of the way to sit beside her on the log. It was only small, enough room for one, or maybe two small people. He was far from small, and yet she managed to create a distance between them by sliding all the way to the edge.

Trying not to let her rejection sting, he said, "I just want to talk."

"I don't want to talk to you."

"I know you're angry with me, Hermione. And I understand, but I just want to —"

"I don't want to talk to you," she hissed, turning fierce eyes upon him. "You left us. You left when —"

"I wanted to come back," Ron said. "I swear, I did. After the locket was off me, I realised I fucked up. But then I —"

"Oh, yes," Hermione said, her tone thick with sarcasm. "You ran into Snatchers. How convenient for you, for us, that by the time you'd left them behind, we had gone. We stayed more than a few hours, you know. Waiting… hoping…"

Ron swallowed, his hand instinctively feeling for the Deluminator inside his pocket. He'd already explained what had happened with that, how it had worked. But it hadn't worked on her, nor had it changed things for them.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, giving the Deluminator a squeeze.

Hermione scoffed. "Sorry…" And she turned away from him again.

"Hermione… how can I make it up to you?" He would do anything to get her to forgive him. Anything.

When she didn't respond, he continued, "I will say sorry every day, over and over, until you forgive me or get sick of hearing it. I don't care how many times I have to say it. I'll say it for the rest of my life, if I have to. Until we're a hundred. I'm sorry, Hermione. Truly, I am. But that locket, it —"

"Do you think it just affected you?" Hermione spat. "Do you think you were special, that it picked you to torment, and Harry and I wore it as a pretty piece of jewellry?"

Ron winced at her tone. "No, but I do think it affected me worse than you or Harry. It played on our doubts, our insecurities, and I had — have — far more than either of you."

"Oh, really?" Hermione snapped. "And how do you know that? Did it tell you how it affected us? What it said? Was that part of its ploy? How do you know what insecurities or doubts Harry or I have? Have you ever asked?"

Ron opened his mouth, closed it, tried again, but when he couldn't think of how to respond, he resorted to staring down at his feet, shuffling them against the dirt. The idea that it spoke to the others had never occurred to Ron. He'd been so caught up in his own misery that he'd never stopped to think that it'd be saying similar things to them, too.

But then, that made his behaviour even worse. They'd endured it, for the sake of saving the wizarding world. He'd run away.

He was glad it was dark so that she couldn't see his flush of shame.

A silence fell between them, broken a few moments later by Hermione's curt voice piercing the air once more. "Well, then, what was it?"

Ron blinked, lifting his head to stare at her. "What?"

"What horrible thing did the locket say to you that made you leave us?" He heard the me in us, and it gave him a sliver of hope that maybe one day she'd find it within herself to forgive him.

"It said…" He paused. How was he supposed to explain what had come out of the locket to her? That a cruel version of herself had declared his worthlessness and proceeded to snog Harry? She'd either laugh at him, or it would make her even more furious, and he didn't want either.

Clutching the Deluminator through his pocket, remembering how the little ball of light carrying her voice had touched his heart, warmed him, and led him back to her, he settled on half the truth. "It told me… that my mum… didn't want me. That I was worthless to her, that…"

For the briefest of moments, Hermione's anger vanished, replaced by a look of sympathy — or was it pity? But she caught herself and her expression turned hard again. "I see."

Ron nodded. "Yeah. That still doesn't excuse what I did, though. I know that. I shouldn't have listened to it, believed it, but —"

"You already believed it?" Hermione's voice was soft, understanding. Ron looked at her, nodding.

"Yeah."

"It played on our deepest fears, Ron. Our biggest insecurities. It was powerful dark magic, difficult to ignore —"

"You managed it," Ron said, relieved that her voice had softened. "You and Harry. I was… weak. I couldn't."

"You were also injured, physically weak from the Splinching. We shouldn't have let you wear it."

"I should have been stronger," Ron mumbled. He scraped his shoes against the dirt again, his fist tight over his pocket. "I really am sorry, Hermione. For leaving, for not coming back. But I really did try to find you. Every moment of every day, I searched for you. It wasn't until… well, I told you how I found you." He chanced a glance her way, surprised to find her staring at him intently.

She shook her head. "I don't understand," she whispered. "How… how can the Deluminator do that?"

Ron took that as an invitation to take it from his pocket. He passed it to her, giving her a half smile as she accepted it. He wasn't sure what she thought of his story, or what it meant to her, if anything. And he wasn't sure whether he should go into further detail about it. She was smart enough to probably figure out why her voice triggered it, and that the light touched his heart.

"You're the genius," he said.

Hermione studied the object, flicking it on and off, over and over again as if that would give her the answers she was after. But, for all intents and purposes, all it did was as Dumbledore had described it — turn lights on and off.

She handed it back to him, sighing. Rather than putting it back in his pocket, Ron held onto it, finding an unexpected source of comfort to him.

"Do you have any theories about it?" Hermione asked.

"About the Deluminator?"

She nodded. "Why… why was it me, and not Harry?"

"I think you know the answer to that, Hermione," Ron answered , surprised at how calm his voice sounded. It was the closest he'd come to telling her how he felt about her. Maybe he should just say it and get it done with. She couldn't be more angry with him.

Her expression gave nothing away, but she didn't deny it either. If she asked him outright, he'd tell her. Part of him was hoping she would, because it would be a relief to finally say it out loud. But instead, she pulled the blanket tighter around her.

"I'm still angry at you," she said.

"I know. I don't blame you."

"But I'm glad youre not dead. I'm glad you came back. I'm glad… I'm just glad you're here."

Ron smiled slightly, nodding. "So am I."

The Deluminator grew hot in his hand. He looked down at it again, toying with him, teasing him. She was listening to him now, and he'd already all but admitted how he felt for her. What else did he have to lose?

"Hermione… I really am sorry."

For the first time, he saw a smile flash across her lips. "I'm already sick of you saying that."

He laughed. "Yeah… well, until you forgive me… Hermione… listen… I… are we… you know… are we… what are we?" The words fumbled from his mouth, his brain unable to form a coherent sentence. "I mean… are we… you know… friends? Or something…." He swallowed. "Something else?"

Hermione took forever to answer. It had taken all of his effort and resolve to even get that out, and now his heart was beating against his chest so fast he felt as if it would burst from him.

The longer she took, the quicker his hope dwindled that she'd give him the answer he hoped for.

Eventually, she nodded. "We're friends, Ron. The best of friends."

He nodded too, trying not to let his disappointment show. "Friends," he mumbled. "I'm glad we're friends."

Her hand reached across the log, covering his. He realised then how cold he was and how warm she was.

Squeezing her hand tightly, glad that they were on the road to forgiveness, he stood.

"Ron," she said, refusing to let go of his hand. He looked down at her.

"I get it, you know," he said. "That… we can't be something else. It'd mess things up."

She shook her head. "Ron… it's just so complicated at the moment. This war, where we are…"

"I get it," he assured her.

"But if we get out of this alive, then… maybe we can be something more. I'd… I'd like that."

Ron smiled, feeling his heart soar. "I'd like that too," he whispered.

Hermione stood, turning to face him. Her eyes were intense, but they weren't angry anymore. He wondered if maybe he should kiss her, though he wasn't sure. He wasn't good at this kind of stuff.

Thankfully, Hermione seemed to have a better understanding of what to do. She stood on her tiptoes and placed soft, warm lips against his cheek. Their hands were still together, a perfect fit.

She came back down and smiled up at him. "You know how I feel," she said.

"And you know how I feel," he replied.

"Let's just hope that we can get through whatever is to come and live to see where everything else takes us."

And suddenly, Ron was filled with a new determination. He wanted this war to end, but he wanted to know what was to come with Hermione even more. He loved her, and he was now confident she loved him back — as furious and as hurt as she currently was.

Nothing gave him more of a reason to live than the promise of her. To him, she was every reason, every purpose. And he had to survive whatever was to come. Just so he could know what it was like to be with her.