A streak of lightning cracks and fizzles across the sky, illuminating the small village of Ottery St. Catchpole before fading the buildings to inky black and purple shadows once more. The wind picks up along with the rain, howling through the paper-thin walls of Ron's small townhouse and sending a shiver racing down his back.

The storm shouldn't affect him this much; thunder and lightning are common at this time of the year, especially over magical towns, when the oppressive humidity of the British early summer mingles with excess magic that buzzes through the air. It makes for impressive views, and usually, he would be out on his small patio with a pint of beer and enjoying it.

But tonight he can't bring himself to step outside the back door.

His copy of the Daily Prophet falls to his lap as a sense of foreboding drifts over his body. Ron doesn't believe in hauntings. In his world, ghosts and poltergeists are obvious with their intentions, and the last time he checked, no ghouls resided in the attic. Yet he can't shake the feeling that something is coming, a paranormal force that is about to turn his world upside down.

Nah, you're being ridiculous.

He scoops up the paper and shuffles it into order before sinking back into the reviews of this weekend's Quidditch games. As he's about to delve deeper into the dismal performance of Chudley Cannons (for the fiftieth weekend in a row), a loud bell rings throughout the house, reverberating deep in his body and startling him out of his peace.

Who on earth could be calling on a night like this? It can't be anyone he knows, or they'd use the Floo. With a sigh, he folds his paper onto the coffee table, pulls his feet out from where the ginger cat is curled on top of him and shuffles towards the door. As if predicting bad news that's about to come, another jagged bolt of lightning flashes in the sky and the rain, that's been pouring non-stop for three days now, grows harder. With it, Ron's heart pounds fast against his ribcage.

"Stop being an idiot," he mumbles to himself as he weaves around discarded shoes, bags and items waiting to go upstairs. "You've dealt with scarier situations than this. You helped Harry fight fucking Voldemort, for fuck's sake."

The bell rings again, five short impatient jabs that set the hairs on Ron's arm on edge.

"Alright, I'm coming, I'm coming. Hold your broomst—" The words disappear from Ron's mouth as he yanks open the door and drinks in the bedraggled person standing in front of him.

The witch hasn't bothered with a raincoat or an Impervius charm, and her brown curls hang heavy around her shoulders as water drips from the end of her short, freckled nose. Her white vest is almost soaked through, yet it still heightens the deep tan of her skin. It seems summer in Australia suits Hermione.

A flurry of different emotions stampede through Ron's stomach, and he swallows hard, trying to chase them away as he would a bludger flying straight at him. She's still stunning, there's no denying that. The heavy pound of his heart and the blood racing south through his body gives that away. But she stirs up an intense amount of anger, annoyance and pain in Ron, and he is in no mood to deal with her, not after the day he's had.

"Ron, hi." She breathes out his name as if it's her final ounce of air, her lips pursed in all their pink pouty glory. There used to be a time when the mere sight of them would make his knees go weak, but now he tries his best to fight the urge. "I'm sorry to turn up out of the blue, but I didn't know where else to go."

Hermione has been away for six months, yet it seems to Ron that it's only been a day. He arranges his face into a frown, staving off the smile that yearns to spread from cheek to cheek on seeing her again, despite his surly attitude towards her. Fucking traitorous body.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his words pointed and sharp.

"My project is over, didn't you get my owl? I took my last portkey this morning and I thought…"

The pile of letters waiting on his desk flits into Ron's mind. Hermione's handwriting loops over the front of them, and he's ignored every single one. He never responded, even when they started turning up once a day, and it took a lot of self-control not to burn them as soon as they arrived.

"I've not read any of them."

She flinches, taken aback by his angry tone. Good. But despite the tendrils of satisfaction creeping over him, a bowtruckle of regret stabs at his heart. He still hates letting Hermione down, even after all this time and the shitty moves she's made.

"Oh. Right." She sighs. "Can I come in? Only I don't have anywhere else to go."

That's a lie. Although Hermione's parents stayed in Australia once their memories were fully restored, there's still Harry and Ginny, most of their schoolmates, and an entire family of Weasleys who'd be more than happy to take her in. But Ron and Hermione are still married, this is theoretically half of her home (although she doesn't deserve it), and she has every right to request to stay.

And there's still a longing deep inside him to learn more about her trip, whether she's back for good this time, or what's happening between them. He's followed the progress of her project, kept every newspaper article that mentioned it like some fucking proud idiot and he has the right to demand she answers all his questions. But should he let her in, only for her to leave when the next big thing comes along? She's only going to break his heart again, after all.

As if forcing his hand, the wind picks up, rattling the leaves of the tree in the front garden and soaking Hermione with a fresh deluge. No matter what she's done in the past, she's still his wife, and Ron cannot turn her away.

"For the night," he says, folding his arms across his chest. "It's too late for you to go anywhere else. But you have to leave tomorrow, Hermione. I can't have you here full-time. You can sleep in the spare room."

"Thanks."

He steps back, opening the door wider to allow her in.

"It's like I never left," she continues as she heads into the hallway, glancing around the place as soon as the door is shut behind her.

"I wanted to decorate, but I thought perhaps…" Ron knows how he wants to finish the sentence. If he changed the house, perhaps Hermione would never want to return. There was a finality to an entire makeover, even though his brothers tried to persuade him that it would be therapeutic to paint over every reminder of her.

"I dunno." He shrugs. "I guess I ran out of time."

An awkward silence spills over them as he leans back against the now-closed door. Hermione wrings her hand for a moment before expelling a hard puff of air. "Look, it's clear I'm not welcome here. I'll take my things, squirrel myself away in the spare room and I'll be out of your hair first thing in the morning. I promise."

"Right."

She watches him for a moment longer before clutching her small purple beaded bag close to her body. Some things never change. "Well, good night then."

Ron doesn't respond to her. Doing so would open an opportunity for more dialogue, and he needs to get his thoughts in gear before he can even contemplate telling her how bad she hurt him. Instead, he waits until she reaches the top of the stairs before wandering through to the kitchen, rattling pots and pans as he works out what to do next. It's like he's back on the hunt, clueless as to what they're working towards and unsure of how to fix things. It's as if a huge piece has been yanked away from his body and he's not sure what's going to make it right.

So he concentrates on finishing his washing up. The sooner he can get the last of his chores done, the sooner he can get to sleep and this whole nightmare will be over. Hermione will leave in the morning and hopefully, she'll be out of his life for good and he can continue to get over her. As if it were that easy.

"Are you awake?"

Hermione's voice is quiet, yet Ron can hear her over the sound of the still-rolling storm. It's like he's tuned in to her, as if they have a soulbond, and her words are being spoken only in his head.

He sighs and rolls onto his back, rubbing his gritty eyes with the heels of his hands. There have been many nights like this since she left, but this is the worst. He's surprised she's the first one to break the silence, to take the five steps across the landing to the other room given the cold shoulder he gave her when she arrived. But he's glad she has. Merlin knows he's been thinking about doing it since he climbed into bed a few hours ago. If only he had the balls.

"Yeah."

"Will you talk to me, please?"

Even through the darkness, he can picture the sad look permeating the tone of her voice. There's nothing fake about it, it's loaded with regret and heartache, mirroring the same feelings that have blackened his heart since she turned up unexpectedly earlier.

He longs to give her everything she wants, to reach out, pull her into his cold, lonely bed, let her skin glide against his and bury himself deep inside her. But self-preservation still sits between them like the strongest of shield charms, pinning his arms and head to the mattress.

There are a hundred things they could talk about, yet he finds the words slipping out of his mouth before he has a chance to debate them. "I don't know what to say to you, Hermione."

She takes a couple of steps towards his, no, their bed, uninvited but not unwelcome. Hermione folds her hands behind her, pushing her chest towards him. Bloody hell. Her pretty pink pyjamas are nothing special, but they're the most indecent thing she could be wearing. There's no way they can have any sort of serious conversation when she's dressed like that.

Ron gulps before continuing, "Part of me wants to forgive you, have us go straight back to normal, get you back into bed with me. I missed you, Hermione. So fucking much. But there's still some part of me that wants to hurt you the same way you hurt me."

"I am hurting, Ron."

Pushing himself into a seated position, he tries everything to avoid looking at her. One glimpse and his resolve will crumble but he can't give in this easily. Not to her.

How dare she say she's hurting after everything she put him through? His blood boils as he snaps back, "What, because I abandoned you and moved to the other side of the world? Because I left you when everything else was falling to shit? Because I turned my back on us and walked away? Oh wait, that was all you."

Hermione shudders but sits on the edge of the bed anyway, taking up the smallest amount of space. It's still too close, Ron would only need to twitch his foot and it would press against her firm thigh. He suppresses a groan and tries to focus on all the ways she hurt him to stave off the urge to throw himself at her, to kiss away the sad look on her face and seek his own comfort deep in the valley of her chest.

"When you abandoned Harry and I during the Horcrux hunt, you made a mistake," she says, unwilling to look at him. "After returning to us, you did everything you could to make it up to us, staying by our sides when things got bleak, when Fred died. You promised me that if you had another chance, you would do things differently so I forgave you.

"I know I hurt you when I left, but it was a different situation. I begged you to come with me—"

"But I couldn't get the time off. I couldn't pack up and leave, Hermione." It's an argument they had countless times in the days before she left, so it only piques his anger that they're having it again. The Horcrux Hunt, the same mistakes being used time and time again to twist the blame onto him. It's not fair.

"I know! I know I hurt you when I left, Ron, but I promised myself that if I could get you to listen to me, I would explain. There was never a day over the past six months where I didn't think you were the best part of my life—"

"You can't just say that. Not after months of only sending letters. I begged you not to go, not to leave me. But you did anyway."

Her hands squeeze together in tiny little fists. She's annoyed that he keeps on interrupting her, but there's no way Ron is going to make this easy for Hermione. She can't rock up, apologise, and want everything to be okay again. Not when she still holds the hunt over his head.

"Why can't I say it? It's the truth."

He scoffs. "Really?"

"Yes!" Hermione screeches. "And if you had read my letters, you would have seen that I was being childish when I walked away from us. You gave me an ultimatum when the work came to me, and I fought against it for all the wrong reasons. I was stubborn.

"But I can't take it back. I wish that I could, but you know what happens when you mess with time. Anyway, I don't have access to a time-turner anymore. Am I glad I went? Yes, I loved the work, I loved spending quality time with my parents for once. I loved every minute of living in a different country. But I want you to know something, Ron. There was never a day where I loved it more than I love you.

"Always and forever, Ron. That's what we promised each other."

"What?"

"Nothing, forget I said anything."

Body sagging in defeat, Hermione slides from the bed and makes her way out of the room. Her head is low, her shoulders shudder with every step. She must be crying after her confession and another pang of regret squeezes Ron's heart. The sight of her retreating brings back a flood of memories. Returning from a shit day at work to an empty house, finding a note that said 'I'm sorry x'.

"Hermione," he whispers, the words slipping out with the flood of emotions that he's tried so hard to keep in check since her sudden appearance a few hours ago.

His words put a stop to her leaving and she spins around. Although her cheeks are wet, a fire ignites in her eyes and her pupils are darker than the stormy clouds outside. They used to joke that it was Ron who wore his heart on his sleeve, but he can read her as clear as day, she's not even trying to hide the hurricane of passion rolling over her.

Ron's heart skips one, two, three beats and his toes curl. Lightning cracks again, a brilliant bolt that seems like it's outside his window, directly over the house and goosebumps erupt across his skin. His stomach squirms as if a thousand flobberworms have exploded inside it, but he can't deny the desire for her lingering under his skin. It's as if someone has doused him with the strongest love potion, and Ron has some experience with those blasted things.

"Ron, please, I just…"

Hermione's words get lost in her tears as she covers the space between the bed and the door in only four steps. She falls onto the bed and into his arms, and he wraps them around her, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla, raspberry and roses. Her lips cover his and despite every inch of him screaming that this is wrong, he responds willingly, devouring her as if it's the last chance he'll get to taste her kiss, to trace the familiar lines with his tongue as they melt together.

It's too easy to be like this. The months of angst and anxiety pour out of him as he rolls them over and pins her to the bed, one hand finding its way under her top to palm her breast. Hermione's nipple responds to his touch and she groans against his lips, pulling him even deeper into her. She must be able to feel how hard he is as he grounds his hips to hers, their frantic reunion threatening to make a mess of him before they've even started.

Another groan stops him from melting into her. No, not like this. As she tears her lips from his to kiss against his jaw, Ron duels with the fine line between reality and fantasy. He needs her so badly. He might explode if he waits any longer for her. Despite his brothers' best efforts, there hasn't been anyone else since she left. But not now. Not with the Erumpent-sized trauma she dealt him. There's still so much shit they need to sort out before they can be like this again. If they ever manage to iron it all out.

It's the biggest struggle of his life, but he prises her lips from his skin, gliding his fingers against her side one last time in case it's the only chance he'll get to feel her soft skin before slipping out of bed. He presses himself against the bedroom wall, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. His breath comes in short bursts as he forces out, "I can't do this. I'm sorry, Hermione, but you have to go. Please."

Disappointment floods her face, and his own tears fill his eyes. They were perfect for each other, but it was once upon a time and fairytales never come true. Ron and Hermione might not ever get their happily ever after.

She takes his rejection a lot better than expected, rolling into a sitting position and pulling her hair out of her face. Wiping her eyes, she says, "I understand if you don't want me anymore."

She climbs out of bed, brushing past him on her way to the door. The pressure sends a tingle of excitement over him once more, but he tries to push it away. He almost lost control once, next time it will be harder to stop.

"Always and forever, it's what we promised," he repeats her words, not caring about the tremor in his voice.

She is the only person he can be open with about his emotions and his feelings, and he's not going to stop that now. If there's ever going to be a way forward with them, they both have to speak honestly.

He continues, "And that's what sucks, Hermione. I still do love you, I always will. But I can't trust you right now. It took you ages to forgive me for leaving back at the hunt. What makes you think it'll be easier for me this time? Do you expect me to forgive you straight away because you eventually accepted that I made a mistake? I'm sorry, but I can't do that. You hurt me, Hermione."

She wipes her eyes as she leans against the door frame, but a nod gives away her agreement. It's a small victory, but a step in the right direction.

"You can trust me, Ron. I'll prove it to you," she responds in a quiet voice.

Before he can reply again, she disappears, closing the door gently behind her. Flopping back into bed, Ron lets a heavy sigh escape his lips. This was never going to be easy, but he didn't expect this rollercoaster of emotions. He squeezes his eyes shut. On top of this all, he has another fucking hard day at work tomorrow. Fuck's sake.