I can remember touching him. I can remember the feel of his strong hand stroking my hair, the feel of a small warm tear splashing onto my forehead as I lay in his lap. My eyes opened and all I could see with my puffy eyes was a slightly darker part of his pants, where my tears and soaked the fabric, and a vacant white foldable chair. I knew what was up farther- a white tomb. The body of the most inspiring person I had ever met. I can remember the feel of his chest moving unsteadily against my ear. As he held me closer, I could feel his pain. I knew he could feel mine. Dumbledore was gone.
That was nearly half a month ago. Just after the sun had set the next day, we had left with Harry. Ron held my hand the whole way to Number 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys were bearable, barely. We stayed for nearly the full two weeks- dementors had attacked and Harry, ever the gentleman, had left the home to protect his family.
We have just arrived at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley is in the kitchen- cooking. I swear that is the only cooping mechanism she has. She cooks when she is sad. She cooks when she is happy. It's worrisome really. She cooks, Ron eats, I read, and Harry just becomes more moody. I don't know what to say to him. There are no magic words this time. I can't just get attacked by a troll, brew some polyjuice potion, or get in a fight with Ron to fix things- or distract him.
Ron and I haven't fought in ages. We talk now. It's wonderful- we talk, we snog, we hold hands, and we talk some more. He's actually listening to me half the time- the other half he's at least pretending. It's nearly perfect. I've finally gotten what I've wanted for six years and the funny thing is: now that I've got it, I'm not sure I could ever let go again.
"Hermione, dear, are you sure you don't want any more cookies?" Mrs. Weasley asks from the kitchen. My mouth is a little busy with her son and I am so thankful for doors.
"No thanks. I'm not hungry. The first twelve were really delicious though, thank you," a call back. Ron smiles at me. He's continually amused with the way I handle his mother while we- you know.
"Not hungry, eh?" he asks jokingly, a shock of his deep red hair obscuring one of his brilliant blue eyes.
I wink. "Well not for cookies, anyways." I am a tease. I'll be the first to admit it. I lean up and catch his lips. I smile into the kiss. Every time we kiss it has the excitement of the first time, and it's so comfortable. Even the first time felt right. There was no trepidation and we both meant it.
------
We were in the great hall waiting for Harry. We hadn't spoken since the night before when he had held me close and told me that things would be okay. I had believed him, but then the words had seemed so wise, but sitting there in the ever-intrusive silence had led me to believe that maybe things wouldn't be all right. I was worried.
Ron and I sat at the end of the Gryffindor table. It's funny how old habits die hard. We could have seen the doors so much more easily from any of the other tables and yet here we sat- in silence.
It was driving me mad so I broke it. "He was just so immortal. He was Dumbledore. If he can be killed so easily, what chance do the rest of us have?" I blurted out.
He flinched a little. Those beautiful blues looked across the old pine table at me. His hands traced a knot in the wood. He looked down, then back up and directly into my eyes. I noticed at once that his eyes had changed. The sadness had been swept aside by that old stubborn determination. "We've got every chance in the world."
"How do you know?" I asked, expecting an utterly Ron response like "I just do" or even "They'll be loads of fog tonight." His response surprised me and yet it was what utterly Ron as come to be: strong and fluffy – like a lion.
"Because of you." He was dead honest. I was taken aback and just blown away. It was just like one of those cheesy romance novels that I sometimes transfigured into textbooks. He looked so strong and so convinced and his eyes were certain, but gentle.
I leaned in, just a little. He grasped my hands.
"You're so cold," he commented, in effort to ward off the impeding silence.
"You're so warm." I looked down at his hands. There were little brown freckles on the lowest knuckles of his middle fingers. I'd seen them so many times and when I thought of Ron his smile, his hair, the little eye-roll he would give me when I would suggest he read anything other than magazines on Quidditch, and those little freckles would swarm my head.
"You know I read it," he said suddenly.
"Read what?" I asked confusedly.
"Hogwarts: A History," he boasted, pride shining in those pretty blues. "In fourth year. When I wouldn't talk to Harry and you wouldn't talk to me. I guess it just made me feel better." He laughed uneasily. In that instant, I saw that shy little boy that blushed whenever a pretty girl would talk to him or when we would touch.
Everything that had happened between us in the past years suddenly became so clear. I stood up and walked around the table towards him. He beat me to it (those wonderful Quidditch reflexes). We stopped half way between our vacant seats and he leaned down and kissed me. It sounds so cliché, but my leg popped, my toe pointed, and fireworks went off.
---
It feels just like that now, except, well better. Lavender hadn't been as good of practice as one would have suspected and Ron had some lizard like tendencies at times. We've worked out all those kinks now.
Whenever we kiss all the bad in the world falls away, it's just us, and it's okay to be silly, and flirtatious. There are no expectations, rules, or anything. It is just us and that's just right. Our missing half hour here and forty-five minutes there make the rest of the world better than bearable.