As it turned out, the bed was going to have to wait, too.

On his way to the dormitory wing he'd been accosted by Fred and George, who had dragged him off to see their mother. Nearly the whole rest of his family was there, too, and so he stayed to catch up with everyone there a bit longer than he'd planned. As soon as he was able, he untangled himself from the snarl of Weasleys and went about his mission.

After asking nearly every person he encountered in the dormitory wing (which was quite a feat in and of itself, since he'd never actually seen so many people crammed together in one place before), Ron finally obtained directions to where Ginny had set him and Hermione up to bunk for the night.

As he followed them, frequently stopping to consult the crude map a fifth year (former) Hogwarts student had drawn for him, his sense of foreboding grew. After Dumbledore's warning, Ron had known they wouldn't manage to get one of the best rooms. He thought they might even be crammed into the main dormitory wing with all of the other students, but the fifth year's directions were leading him into broom closet territory. Finally, at the end of the last hallway, Ron found Hermione behind the last door.

If the room at the bolthole had been spare, this one was downright meager. There were exactly two pieces of furniture in the entire room: an overstuffed sofa and a writing desk with no chair. And now that Ron thought about it, using the word 'entire' to describe the room was doing it an unwarranted favor, since it was approximately the same size as the family washroom, back at the Burrow.

Hermione was seated on the center cushion of the couch, bent over so that her chin rested in her hands. There was a neat, folded pile of linens and a pillow on either side of her. One set for each of them, presumably, though there was no bed in sight to make. She looked up when he came in.

Ron stopped dead, dumbstruck. "You've got to be joking."

Hermione looked around a bit blankly, as if seeing the room for the first time. "Ginny said the dormitory wing is full."

Ron shook his head incredulously. "Dumbledore said we'd find the accommodations lacking…he didn't say we'd be lacking beds!"

About three strides took him to the other side of the room, where there was another door. Ron flung it open to discover a tiny loo. He turned back to Hermione. "This is ridiculous! I know we're pretty much just foot soldiers, here, but don't we at least rate a couple of mattresses? I mean, honestly! They wouldn't have stuck Harry in - "

He bit off the end of his rant, too late. He stole a guilty glance at Hermione, who was looking down at her hands. After a beat of silence, she said, "There's been no word from him."

"I know," Ron answered, feeling like scum for having brought it up, and low for even sounding the least bit jealous of Harry. It was wrong to feel that way, especially now. "I shouldn't have said that," he mumbled.

"Don't," Hermione said, her head snapping up. "Ginny wouldn't talk about him. When we ran into her in the corridor, Tonks wouldn't talk about him. The whole mansion is afraid to say his name around me. Don't you do it, too."

Ron stared at her. This was the first time she'd raised her voice in days. The first time she'd shown passion about anything since he'd hauled her away from the blood-soaked lawn of that accursed house.

As he watched, however, she seemed to deflate. It was as if too much energy was required for her to be so involved, and she couldn't maintain it. It drained out of her, and she looked back down at her hands. "I know you've been looking after me," she said quietly. "I know I've been…sort of lost. But I don't need to be mollycoddled, Ron. I'm not made of glass. Everyone's handling me like a breakable object, and I don't want you to treat me that way, too."

So softly that he almost couldn't hear her, she added, "I can't take that from you. You're all I've got left."

Ron's jaw clenched. If she hoped to somehow disable the protective urge he felt when it came to her, then she'd failed miserably with her final sentence.

With the exception of Harry, Hermione had had more taken away from her than any of them. As a muggle-born, and one of Harry's closest friends, she'd been an obvious target from the beginning. Dumbledore had known that and taken steps to protect her, and her family, but Voldemort's Death Eaters had been faster.

Unbidden, memories of that night came to Ron in flashes. He couldn't seem to remember the exact order of events on that horror-filled evening. Instead, what he had was a small collection of frozen images that had been forever seared into his brain. He remembered vividly the dirt and grime smeared on the students' faces after their harrowing escape from Hogwarts through the underground tunnel that led to the Shrieking Shack. He remembered the unbearable sorrow wrapped around Dumbledore like a cloak as he approached the trio. He remembered the desolate panic in Hermione's eyes when she realized what Dumbledore was trying to tell her. When she realized that her parents were dead.

And he remembered catching Hermione as her knees buckled, and the way her whole body had shaken from the force of her sobs as he held her. He remembered sharing a silent, mingled look of fury and helplessness with Harry over her head as they both tried their meager best to console her.

That night had been eight months ago, and was the official start of the war. Voldemort had struck without warning, and used the element of surprise ruthlessly. The Death Eaters had shown no mercy, and nearly a hundred students' families had been attacked. Voldemort himself had launched a simultaneous assault on Hogwarts, succeeding in driving the students and professors from their sanctuary.

Luckily, Dumbledore'd had the mansion waiting.

That had been a cold comfort, though, for Hermione. In one night she'd lost her family, her home, the school and the life that she loved. All she'd been left with, really, were Ron and Harry. Like remoras to a shark, they had remained tightly by her side ever since, sharing an unspoken vow to keep her from suffering any more than she already had.

But now Harry was gone, and Hermione was right. Ron was all she had left. It killed him, knowing that he'd failed to save his best friend. And it killed him now to know that he couldn't protect the girl he loved. What was more, she didn't even want him to.

Then again, when had he ever structured his life around what she thought he should do?

Ron gritted his teeth, trying to siphon off the worst of his temper, for Hermione's sake. He paced back and forth, his movements quick and jerky. "This is just…wrong," he said finally, trying to stay focused on anger. Anger was easier. "We may not be so bloody important in the grand scheme of things, but we deserve more than this."

"It's not that bad," Hermione said, in that maddeningly dispassionate tone.

"Yes, it is," Ron argued. He was seething.

Hermione sighed. "Ron, just…calm down. You can have the sofa."

He stopped pacing. "What?"

Hermione stood and rooted through the first stack of linens. "I can't sleep, anyway," she said as she spread a sheet down on the floor. "So you can take the sofa."

"Is that what you think this is about?" Ron asked incredulously.

Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "Isn't it?"

"No!" he exclaimed. Hermione looked at him oddly and Ron shut up before he could make a fool of himself by saying what it was all about.

It's about you losing your parents. It's about Harry living his whole life under the shadow of what was done to him. It's about having to grow up too fast, and missing out on all of the things kids should get to do before they have to worry about dying. It's about me feeling helpless, because I can't stop any of it. It's about watching you squeeze into that black crawlspace over and over, fighting off the hysteria because you had to, and I can't even get you a damn bed to sleep in.

Irrationally upset with her for not understanding, mostly angry with himself, Ron stalked past her to the sofa. He unceremoniously plucked up his own linens and dumped them on the floor. "You're taking the sofa," he said, pointing at her to remove any doubt.

Something flickered in the depths of Hermione's eyes. "Oh, am I?"

Hearing the confrontation in her tone, Ron crossed his arms. "It's not open for debate."

He expected a fight. He expected that when she opened her mouth, she'd argue that he couldn't tell her what to do, she'd sleep where she chose, and that she wouldn't stand idly by and let him dictate her life. Basically, he was expecting her to say that he was not the boss of her. Part of him was even looking forward to it.

To his considerable surprise, however, she said none of those things. The flicker in her eyes that usually indicated the beginning of a row now warmed into something else. Her lips twitched into a small smile.

Ron was baffled by her response, until she picked her sheet up again and began to make up the sofa with it. "Well," she said, sounding curiously pleased, "if you can still get angry with me, at least it means you aren't worried about breaking me, anymore."

VV

Though Hermione knew how much Ron enjoyed the trappings of a good nod – namely a big, fluffy bed, and hours and hours available in which to lie in it – she wasn't the least bit surprised when he fell asleep on the cold floor of the room within minutes of turning in.

Nor was she at all puzzled when she at first found herself unable to follow him into unconsciousness. Sleep had been an elusive aspect of her life for the better part of the past year. Now, since their last mission and Harry's disappearance, it felt utterly unattainable.

Still, Hermione tried anyway. Being quiet to avoid waking Ron, she shifted onto her side. The high back of the sofa trapped the heat her body radiated behind her, keeping her back warm. The rest of her was cold.

She stared blindly out into the room, the gloom robbing her of sight. Ron had left the light on in the washroom, pulling the door nearly all the way closed so they'd have a little illumination in the windowless room, but not enough to keep them awake. All she could really make out was the dark shape of Ron's form below her on the floor. His blanket was wrapped around him like a cocoon; only the top of his head was visible sticking out at one end.

Hermione surprised herself for the second time that night by smiling at the image.

After her parents died, she'd thought that she'd never be able to feel happy about anything again. Suddenly everything seemed so hopeless, and so dark. So pointless. And she knew deep down, even now, that there would probably always be a part of her that was tarnished. She would never again be as innocent, as carefree as she once was, and she felt doomed to despair for the rest of her life.

But in the months after, she'd found a new strength inside herself, helped along in large parts by her friendship with Harry and Ron. They had responded to her need, sticking by her until finally she began to heal. She owed them everything.

Now one of her friends was missing, and she felt broken again. Ron had surprised a smile out of her earlier. And now, lying here in the dark next to him, she was startled again by how peaceful she felt.

There was so much she had to worry about. So much to dread. But for now, all she could think about was how like a little boy Ron looked. His uncomplicated presence there reassured her, comforted her when she thought she was beyond comfort, and did the impossible for her. Lulled by the even sound of his breathing, she slipped into sleep.

Though muffled by the earth that surrounded her, and the empty rooms above, Hermione could still hear the sounds of fighting outside.

Shouts made faint by distance. Rumblings in the ground from blasts of magic that missed their mark.

With each powerful reverberation, cracks appeared in the concrete walls. Small bits of stone were dislodged, and the air became thicker with dust. Hermione couldn't help but draw it into her lungs with each ragged breath. It was a gritty chalk on her tongue, but she preferred it to that other taste. She tried not to think about it, but she couldn't ignore the sweet, putrid flavor of decay that permeated the cellar. She tried not to look, but the limp, lifeless form in the corner lured her gaze like a magnet.

It was so small.

But there was no time to dwell on it. No time to let despair pull her under. Ron was shouting for her to hurry. She could hardly hear him over the thin, terrified screams of the children. And above them, somewhere, Harry was fighting for all their lives.

The entrance to the crawlspace gaped like a narrow, toothless mouth. It waited to swallow her again.

"Hermione, come on! There can't be any more. Let's go!" Ron shouted.

But she couldn't. She had to be sure.

Hermione crawled into the maw one last time, forcing herself into the tight confines of the passageway. It led to hell, but she had no choice. She felt insanity reaching up for her again from the depths of all that blackness, and tried to fight it off. The only thing stronger than her terror was the urgency flowing through her veins.

But there was no room, and so much fear. It pervaded the space she was in, infusing the darkness around her with an evil that clutched at her. It caressed her skin and wound tendrils around her ankles and wrists, pulling her deeper. She couldn't break free from it. She couldn't go back. She couldn't get away.

A scream bubbled up in her throat as the darkness devoured her alive. The pounding in the floor was a muscle that contracted around her as she was consumed. She was losing herself. She was lost.

Then somewhere behind her she heard Ron frantically calling her name. Hermione tried desperately to turn around, but the walls were pressing in on her so tightly that she couldn't move. She squirmed helplessly, giving in to panic when she didn't budge. "Ron!" she screamed.

Then suddenly he was there with her. Somehow Ron was holding her. "Hermione!" he shouted again. He shook her, hard, and her eyes snapped open.

Madness fled. The shadows released her and retreated, banished to the corners of the room where they belonged. Hermione found herself in Ron's arms, and his touch was as warm and soothing as sunlight on her chilled skin.

She had been instantly freed from the nightmare. Like a switch had been thrown, suddenly the horror was gone and Ron had delivered her from it.

He was sitting next to her on the sofa, and Hermione clung to him, panting, her face buried at the base of his throat. A rapid beat drummed in his chest. She could feel it beneath her hands; it nearly matched the pace of her own heart. His arms were around her, solid and strong, and she began to relax immediately within his secure embrace. She realized with horror that the small whimpering noises she heard were coming from her own throat, and stopped.

Sensing her calm, Ron shifted a little and she felt him looking down at her. "Merlin's beard, Hermione. Are you all right?"

Hermione took a final, shuddering breath as she expelled the rest of the nightmare. She couldn't seem to pull away from the refuge he provided – not yet – so she stayed where she was. "It was just a dream," she said.

Ron sounded dubious at her simple explanation. "That must've been some dream. You were screaming."

Hermione didn't answer, and she felt him duck his head, trying to see her face. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head quickly. "No. No, I'm all right now. I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's all right," Ron said absently, blinking rapidly. She could tell that she'd woken him from a dead sleep. And now that he knew there was no danger, the adrenaline rush dropped him and drowsiness returned full-force.

He made as if to release her and Hermione gripped him tighter, panicked. "Ron, wait… Could you…stay? Please?"

She hated the way she sounded, so vulnerable and dependent. But she couldn't face the nightmare alone again.

She sensed surprise in his sharp intake of breath, and by the brief bracing of his muscles. Her eyes closed. She was torn between embarrassment for asking, and the desperate fear that he would say no. But then he relaxed. "Okay," he said, and instantly she could breathe again.

Hermione found that she could release him now, and she scooted over to make room. Ron stretched out beside her, his movements awkward in this new, unfamiliar proximity to her. It was too dark to see if his ears were red, but from the flustered expression on his face she knew they were.

He didn't look at her directly as he found a comfortable position for all of his limbs; nor could Hermione meet his eyes as she lay down next to him. There wasn't much surface area to the cushions, a fact that secretly pleased Hermione because it forced her to nestle closely at Ron's side. With no other place to rest his free arm, Ron tentatively let it drop to his midsection. His fingers brushed her elbow.

It wasn't quite as secure as she'd felt in his arms, but this was nice, too. She felt protected. She felt warm. And she felt safe enough to close her eyes again.

VV

Morning had once been her favourite part of the day.

Since her initial arrival at Hogwarts, Hermione had approached every new day with a sense of nearly fanatical eagerness. It was an exciting new time! There was so much to do. So much to learn! While her roommates always groaned and buried their heads under their pillows at the first rays of sunlight, Hermione fairly leapt from sleep, quivering with excitement at the thought of what each day might bring.

Since the death of her parents, however, Hermione had naturally found that she just couldn't summon up the same enthusiasm she'd once had for the start of a brand new day. Since the cessation of classes and the recent Death Eater infestation at Hogwarts, there seemed to be precious little for her to look forward to, anymore. Still, from personal experience, Hermione knew that morning was the best time of the day for some people.

Ron Weasley was not one of those people.

This wasn't exactly breaking news to Hermione, but it was remarkably inconvenient. She shoved him, eliciting nothing more than a grunt in response. He didn't get up. He didn't shift. He didn't even open his eyes. He remained exactly where he'd been ever since Hermione had awoken.

On top of her.

She pushed at him again, feeling her face heat up. This was very embarrassing. First of all, he was only on the sofa with her to begin with because she'd asked him to stay. It was hard to blame him for her current predicament when she'd brought it solely upon herself.

It would still have been all right, though, if she'd been able to extricate herself from him in a dignified manner. But the first thing she'd noticed upon waking was that she couldn't move. There was a warm, heavy weight on top of her, pinning her to the sofa. And it was snoring.

Her eyes had snapped open, and she'd immediately discovered the source: Ron. Over the course of the night he had claimed inch after inch, mercilessly advancing like a conquering nation, until he had taken over the whole sofa. He was lying on his stomach with half of his chest draped across her upper body. His right arm was more or less wrapped around her, and his legs were tangled with hers. His face was turned toward her, inches from her own.

Hermione herself had shifted, as well; instead of being snuggled up on her side against him, she was lying flat on her back. Her right arm and leg – as well as most of the rest of her – were buried beneath him. Her chin was nearly even with Ron's shoulder if she looked straight up at the ceiling. By turning her head to the side, she found herself on level with his lips.

His lips…

Hermione flushed even more. She was disconcerted by the whole experience – Merlin knew she'd never slept in a boy's arms before! – but mostly because it was Ron. Somehow, she didn't think she'd be having quite the same reaction to someone else's lips. There was something undeniably intimate about lying there with him, like this, with more of their bodies touching than not. She was closer to him now than she'd ever had cause to be while they were awake, and she found herself wanting to take the opportunity to just look at him, for once not having to worry about whether or not he'd notice her stare.

She tried to fight the urge. It wasn't right. With everything that was going on, and after all these years of keeping them hidden, now was definitely not the proper time to allow her inappropriate feelings to surface. And it wasn't fair to Ron. She knew he'd never be this close to her if she hadn't asked him to stay. It was bad enough she'd made him feel obligated to do something he wouldn't ordinarily have. She had no wish to make him even more uncomfortable, and no right to watch him sleep, on top of it.

She had no right, she told herself again, but couldn't seem to tear her gaze away. He looked so innocent, lying there. So familiar. Literally the only person she loved left in the world who hadn't been taken from her.

Her clueless champion. Her Ron.

Her best friend, who – if she didn't look away right now – was going to wake up any minute and discover her watching him sleep. That simply wouldn't do.

Unfortunately, there appeared to be a serious communication problem between her brain and her body, because she was still staring at him. A wave of tenderness rose up in her, and she battled the impulse to reach up with her free hand and brush a lock of hair from his forehead. It was getting a little long again. She actually liked it better that way, but kept it to herself because she knew Ron would be scandalized if he was ever to learn that she thought about his hair. Now, though, it was getting long enough so that it was almost in his eyes.

In his light, clear blue eyes. His open eyes.

Oh no.

Hermione's first, startled reaction at being caught was to jerk away and scream. There was, fortunately, a critical obstacle to that course of action; she was still trapped underneath him and couldn't jerk anywhere. And she managed to turn her surprised shriek into a surprised gasp, instead.

For his part, Ron seemed acutely awake, all of the sudden, for someone who'd been blissfully sawing logs only a moment before. His eyes were wide and unblinking. He also appeared to have stopped breathing, and he shared a profound, seemingly endless moment of absolute stillness with Hermione while they stared into each other's eyes.

Finally, he blinked, releasing her from the cage of his intense stare. "Hermione," he said, and she was surprised by the softness of his voice.

She wanted to gulp. "Yes?"

She would have expected him to be disconcerted, at the very least. Embarrassed, beyond a doubt. But his eyes were gentle, taking her off guard. "Why're you staring at me?"

There was a beat – only a fraction of a second – in which she thought about telling him. She had to admit there was a part of her that wanted to. A part of her that was so tired of hiding how she felt, and intrigued by his remarkable reaction to finding her gaze upon him. Then, sensing the possibility that she could still escape this mortifying turn of events relatively unscathed if she kept her wits about her, Hermione affected a casual, matter-of-fact tone. "Well, my options are rather limited, at present. It's either you or the ceiling."

Ron's brow furrowed as he looked at her in confusion. Hermione arched one of her own eyebrows at him in response, and then glanced meaningfully down at their entwined bodies.

His gaze followed hers. She could tell the very instant he registered what he was seeing, because he immediately turned so red that she was afraid his capillaries would burst from the sudden increase in pressure.

Ron sprang up from the sofa. Or rather, he tried to. Since he failed to disentangle himself from her first, however, all he actually succeeded in accomplishing was hurling himself to the floor. Unencumbered at last, Hermione sat up. "Are you all right?"

He was up again at once. "Fine, I'm fine," he said quickly. He looked everywhere but at her. "Uh…sorry about that," he said, gesturing vaguely in her direction.

Hermione took it to mean he was referring to the nocturnal snuggling. "It's all right."

"It's just that I'm not used to sleeping with anyone. I mean sharing a bed with someone," he amended hastily. Then, realizing that his last sentence didn't come across any better than the first had, he corrected himself again. "Sofa! I mean, sleeping on a sofa! Ruddy small thing, it is."

"It's all right," Hermione said again.

This time, Ron heard her. "Right." He raked a telltale hand through his hair, belying the nonchalance he was obviously trying to project. He sought to change the subject. "We should get ready for breakfast. I'm going to check in with Dumbledore to see if they've heard anything about Harry, first, but I'll meet you in the Hall."

Hermione, who had up until this moment been tempted to tease him a little just because he was so adorable when he was flustered, felt levity leave her.

For a few minutes, all thoughts of Harry had vanished from her mind, and she felt horrible. What kind of friend was she?

Not a very good one, she decided as she watched Ron pad into the loo. She stood wearily, grabbing up her blanket to fold it. It was an odd sort of thing, she mused, that she hadn't felt burdened at all while Ron was lying on top of her and she couldn't move. It was only now, when she was free again, that she felt weighed down.