AN
-Enjoy this fluffy angsty DH fic, written for smjl for the 2020 HPRomione Discord Secret Santa Exchange!
-Thanks to adenei6 for betaing :)
Baby, It's Cold Outside
Ron's journey as he seeks forgiveness from Hermione upon returning to the horcrux hunt, and how a certain maroon jumper brings them together.
-December 26th, 1997-
Ron was almost to his bed when he nearly tripped, but luckily he steadied himself against the frame before he could actually fall. Thank Merlin he did, because he could sense her watching him from her position on the sofa, and there was no need for her to see him making a fool of himself— again. He crouched down to see what his foot had caught on, only to discover his old, worn-out jumper.
The tent could only block so much of the icy wind from outside, so stumbling upon his warm jumper was a relief. He was anxious for a change of clothes, but most of his warmer things were still in Hermione's bag, and there was no way she would let him dig around in it just yet. Ron was quickly coming down from the adrenaline rush of destroying the locket, and his awareness of the cold grew stronger with every misty breath he could see leaving his lips. He pulled the jumper over his head just as his teeth started to chatter.
There was something peculiar about the jumper. Not only did it appear to have been recently washed, but it also smelled different than he remembered. Although distinct, it was still familiar enough that he could name it— oak and vanilla. Easy, and not because he was particularly gifted at identifying scents, but because he had already spent significant effort trying to decipher that exact aromatic component in Slughorn's Potions class last year. The Hermione-ness of Amortentia— and now his jumper— was what confirmed his attraction to her— it was warm, cozy, and inviting. The irony of that was not lost on Ron, considering Hermione's current position on the sofa, looking as frigid and inhospitable as the winter storm outside.
The only reason he didn't bring the jumper with him when he left was that Hermione had been wearing it. When they were first on the run, he would offer it to her whenever she looked cold, and by the time he left, she was accustomed to borrowing it on her own. She sat bundled up with a blanket and The Tales of Beedle The Bard, and the jumper she wore instead of his didn't look nearly as warm. Compared to his, it looked awkwardly small on her, which gave her the appearance of a disgruntled goldfish angrily bobbing inside her too-small fishbowl. Clearly, Hermione had worn his jumper much more recently than the night he left, and the thought filled Ron with hope. Maybe there was still a part of her that didn't want to be angry. Maybe he was wrong to assume they'd never recover from this.
That hope helped keep him warm when he stumbled into bed, cold and hungry, but more content than he'd been in a while.
-January 1st, 1998-
The harsh cold persisted over the next few days, effectively undermining any allusions of the tent's hospitality. Unwilling to expose his skin to winter's aggression for more than a few seconds, Ron rarely took off his jumper, and it's comforting warmth was starting to fade into something strictly physical. He should have been sleeping in preparation for his own watch shift, but he couldn't— so he sat on his bed where he could see Hermione bundled up at the tent entrance, keeping watch and looking miserable. She was shivering underneath a heavy pile of blankets and conjuring up her bluebell flames for warmth. Like it did from her body, the icy air greedily extracted any heat from the mug of tea that sat beside her, its contents escaping into a thick ribbon of steam.
He was still enduring Hermione's silent treatment, and he expected he would have to for a while longer. This particular method of punishment was all too familiar to him, and he knew he'd have to ride it out, but in order to respect her boundaries, he had to figure out where they were. He slid off of his bed and grabbed an extra blanket from his bunk before making his way toward the opening of the tent, determined to uncover exactly where Hermione had drawn the line.
If she heard him approaching she didn't show it. Instead, she kept an intense owl-like focus on the woods outside. He laid the blanket next to her and carefully sat down, making sure to set a respectable distance between them, to avoid earning himself an extension of her silent treatment.
"Hi," he said brightly.
She didn't answer, but he saw her eyebrows knit together slightly, and that counted as an acknowledgment for him.
"I've always loved those flames," he continued. "You're good at them."
Silence.
"I could never get them right," he pressed on, hoping a little bit of flattery would soften her up. "And they don't stay warm when I do it."
Hermione sighed and turned to look at him. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Talking to you."
"Yeah, well. Please don't," she said before turning away again.
"I really missed you," he said, a little more earnestly this time. With Hermione, honesty was a great choice when it flattered her.
Hermione shrugged. "Good."
Ron couldn't help but chuckle at her nonchalant answer. To him, it was a clear confession that her silent treatment was intentional, which meant it required effort to keep up. Hermione's scowl that she hadn't been expecting him to laugh.
"You should really be in bed," she said.
"I know," he said. "I can't sleep. And you looked like you could use some company—."
She groaned, dropping her face to her hands in frustration. "You're infuriating. I'm trying really hard not to talk to you. Can you please just give me some space?"
Her clear confession wasn't nearly as satisfying as her accidental one. He had already given her weeks of space, and never wanted to let that happen again, but he held his tongue. A line had been drawn. "I'm sorry. I can leave you alone. If that's what you really want."
"It is," she said.
Ron's heart sank— talking to her was the only way he could confidently win her forgiveness. Her attention turned back to the woods, and Ron could almost feel the wall she had built restraining him. "Is that really what you want?"
"Oh my God, Ron," she said exasperatedly. "Stop talking to me."
"Ok, ok," he said as he stood up. Then he reached for the hem of his jumper and pulled it off.
"Now what are you doing?" she asked.
"You seem cold. I'm giving you my jumper."
"I don't want it."
Ron held it out to her anyway, but she shook her head. "Are you sure?"
She nodded.
"Ok then. I'm off to get some beauty sleep," he joked, tucking the jumper under his arm.
"Like you need it," he heard her grumble.
He whipped back around to face her, his face brightening into a smile. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," she stammered. "Just that you said you couldn't sleep, and that's probably because you got more than enough rest at Bill's. Unlike Harry and I."
Ron grinned at her infuriating redirection— she was always an expert at churning his own words around to remind him of his wrongdoings. It kept him on his toes, pissed him the hell off, and was one of his favorite things about her. "Well, that's disappointing. For a moment I thought you were calling me beautiful."
She turned away from him, and Ron thought he caught a reluctant smile on her face. He had his own version of her little game.
"Goodnight Hermione," he said as he turned back toward the bedroom.
She didn't respond, but that's ok. He didn't expect her to.
-January 15th, 1998-
Ron awoke in the middle of the night to a crisp and howling wind. He opened his eyes to see a shivering Hermione sitting up in bed, digging around in her bag. She huffed when she couldn't find anything warmer, and dropped her bag to the floor. Ron's stomach sank, knowing she was so cold, but he also knew that she'd most likely reject his offer to wear his jumper, so he remained silent. She gathered her blanket around her and stumbled off her bed toward the loo, dragging the billowing bedding behind her like a cloak.
Ron figured that Hermione rejecting his jumper was just spiteful stubbornness, and she'd happily wear it against his knowledge. Now alone in the room, he sat up, removed it, then tossed it casually on the floor somewhere between his bed and hers. When he heard the bathroom door open, he quickly dove back underneath his covers, hiked the blankets up to his neck, and assumed a credible sleeping position.
She reentered the room, tugging her blanket along, and nearly tripped when she stumbled into the jumper.
He heard her groan before muttering, "lumos."
Ron cracked his eyes open to observe, making sure to keep the rest of his body perfectly still.
"Ronald," she whispered to herself. "He never puts his stuff away." She crouched down to pick it up and glanced cautiously in his direction.
Ron closed his eyes when she turned to him, this time letting out a muffled— hopefully convincing— snore.
When he heard Hermione crawl back into her bed, he opened one eye to observe again. Luckily, she wasn't even paying attention to him. She sat in her bed, bundled her blanket, holding Ron's jumper in her hands. It looked like she was considering putting it on, and Ron couldn't help but picture her making a pro and con list in her mind about wearing it.
Pro: It smelled like him. Or was that a con?
Con: He might see her wearing it. But maybe that was a pro?
She shook her head as if to erase any hesitations, and slipped the jumper over her bushy hair, which erupted through the neck hole like a volcano. The oversized sleeves dangled lazily off her hands, reminding Ron of the time Harry had lost all of the bones in his arm. The hem bundled and bunched at her hips, and the waist was big enough to hide a second Hermione, yet for some odd reason, it still appeared to fit her better than her own jumper. No longer shivering, she settled back into her blanket, closed her eyes, and smiled softly. He turned onto his side, the same grin etched across his face, and settled back into sleep.
-January 30th, 1998-
The following morning, Ron had discovered his jumper crumpled up on the floor near his bed. Hermione had never returned something unfolded before, and Ron smiled at her attempt to make it seem like she never wore it. He imagined her precariously placing his jumper on the floor so that it looked just careless enough to throw Ron off her scent.
It became their new routine. Every night he would place his jumper somewhere on the floor between their beds, and every morning he would find it again, somewhere else but nearby. And every morning, without fail, he'd put it on and catch a hint of his amortentia, which was growing stronger by the day.
On this particular morning, Ron left the bedroom to find Hermione reading on the sofa, buried in her blanket.
"Morning," he said softly.
She didn't answer, but that was ok. He still didn't expect her to. She did, however, look up from her book momentarily to acknowledge him. Progress.
"I'm making tea. Would you like some?"
Again she was silent, but she smiled and nodded.
With two swift flicks of his wand, Ron conjured up some water in the kettle, and ignited a fire on the stove. Hermione had turned her attention back to her book, content to ignore him, as was their routine. This time her expression remained friendly, and the wall between them felt a little less icy.
It had been just over a month since his return, and although they rarely spoke, he had learned that they didn't really need to speak to communicate. He knew her facial expressions and could read her emotional state with ease. He could tell if she wanted space by the way her eyes focused intently on her book, his greeting eliciting no reaction whatsoever. Recently it didn't seem intentional or pointed, but any attempts to pull her out of that collie-like focus would fail. He knew she was open to an interaction when she placed herself on the edge of the sofa, making room for him, and read distractedly with a bookmark in hand, ready to be used should Ron have something more interesting to talk about. And sometimes, her exaggerated yawns and pointed looks before she went to bed hinted that she wanted him to leave his jumper on the bedroom floor. Accidentally, of course.
The climate between them had improved in more ways than one. They were short on space, and they couldn't avoid close contact. Sometimes they'd touch each other when passing, or rummaging around in the kitchen. At first, she would whip her hand away if it unexpectedly brushed his, but recently, if they made contact she'd linger. It happened more frequently too, but just like leaving his jumper out for her, he didn't dare make those moments look intentional. Every touch was an accident, and they were very clumsy.
But of course, he wanted more. Every morning when he put that jumper back on, it felt almost like a hug. He couldn't just hug her, so instead he looked forward to the closest thing he could get, and wondered if she felt the same when she stole his jumper every night.
When the water boiled, he poured two cups of tea. One with cream and two sugars, and one black. Hermione looked up when he approached and smiled warmly as he handed her the tea.
"Did I get it right?" he asked hopefully, even though he knew he did.
"Yes," she said. "Thank you."
They settled back into a comfortable silence. The blistering cold of the last few weeks had finally loosened its grip. Ron was sitting directly in a sunbeam, and his jumper suddenly felt unnecessary.
He caught Hermione's attention when he sat up abruptly, and pulled it over his head. "What?" he asked.
"Aren't you cold?" she asked, tightening the blankets around her.
"Nah, it's quite warm in the sun, actually," he said, playfully toying with his jumper. "Why, are you cold?"
Sighing, she leaned back and crossed her arms. Ron had to resist laughing at her adorably forced scowl. "Yeah, I am quite cold."
"That's too bad," he said, as he dropped his jumper on the floor between them.
Hermione pursed her lips together as if trying to prevent a smile. "Ron," she asked hesitantly. "If you're not going to wear it, can I borrow your jumper?"
Ron beamed at her. "Thought you'd never ask."
Her smile broke as she leaned forward and grabbed his jumper off the ground. "I thought I'd never have to," she said with a blush before putting it on.
-February 14th, 1998-
Harry had just gone to bed, and Ron was due to take over watch from Hermione in two hours. He had tried to pass the time by reading her copy of Beedle The Bard, but there were only so many times one could read A Warlock's Hairy Heart and still be entertained by it. He put the book back down on the coffee table, before standing, stretching, and making his way toward the kitchen to make tea.
He made the usual, two cups of tea, one with cream and two sugars, and one black.
"Tea?" he called to Hermione. It was just a formality at this point, a warning that he was coming over to bring her tea and invade her space. Lately, she didn't seem to mind.
"You don't have to be out here for two more hours," she said.
He grinned, set the tea down between them, and took a seat across from her. "You're welcome for the tea."
She smiled. "Thank you."
They sat quietly for a few moments, before Ron took a chance, and inched himself closer to Hermione so that he was sitting next to her. She didn't move away from him at all.
"Is this ok?" he asked.
She nodded. "Of course."
"It's kind of cold though," he said. "Don't you think?"
He didn't need to see her face to know that he had earned an eye-roll. With an exaggerated sigh, she shifted her blanket so it now covered them both, and moved closer so their legs pressed together. "Better?"
"Much better." It was the most physical contact they'd shared since before he left. "This is perfect, actually."
He felt her head rest on his shoulder, and she didn't even flinch when he accidentally brushed her hand underneath the blanket. They paused, as if daring each other to make the next advance, before he slipped his hand over hers and their fingers intertwined.
He could have stayed like that all night, gently rubbing his thumb across her hand and listening to her breath in his ear. Two hours felt like two minutes, and when his time to take over watch came, he considered not saying anything at all, but that would have been selfish.
"Hermione?" he asked.
"Hmm?" she asked into his shoulder.
"It's my turn. You can go to bed, if you want to." He tried to emphasize that last part. Maybe she didn't want to.
She lifted her head from his shoulder. "It'll be cold."
Ron didn't want to press his luck by asking her to say, so he tugged at the hem of his jumper, and gave it to Hermione.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome."
She turned toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair as she entered the tent. "Ron?" she asked when she was halfway there.
"Yeah?"
"Happy Valentine's Day."
Ron smiled. He was wondering if she had realized the date. "Happy Valentine's day, Hermione."
-March 1st, 1998-
After that night, Hermione never gave him back his jumper, and he didn't mind one bit. It was getting warmer every day, so he didn't need it anymore, and it looked better on her anyway. Additionally, Valentine's Day turned out not to be an isolated event. At this point, Ron could generally expect their watch shifts to overlap for some time, while they held hands under a blanket, and their tea turned cold.
It was Harry's night for watch, which meant that Hermione and Ron were alone in the bedroom. She was bundled up in multiple blankets, and his jumper, and appeared to be pretending to sleep. He was quite warm, so he wore a simple vest, one blanket, and he was absolutely pretending to sleep.
"Ron?"
He smiled at her voice in the dark. "Yes, Hermione?"
"I'm cold," she whined.
Ron laughed and flopped back onto his pillow. "Well, I'd give you my jumper, but you haven't taken it off for two weeks."
She buried her face into her pillow. "I know,' she groaned.
"And I'd give you my blanket, but then I'd be cold."
Hermione turned to face Ron, eyes narrowed as if sizing him up. "Maybe we could share?" she asked tentatively.
Ron's eyebrows shot up his forehead. She wanted to share. "You won't hex me if I come over there?"
She shook her head, before inching toward the far edge of her bed.
Ron felt his ears turn pink as he slipped out of his bed, and approached hers. It was the first time they'd ever shared a bed, and Ron had always imagined it would happen differently. In his envisioned future, this moment would take place after a first kiss, but he wasn't about to complain. He slid under the covers almost too eagerly, then momentarily froze, unsure where to put his arms and legs. He wanted to pull her close and wrap his arms around her, heck he wanted to do much more than that. What he really wanted to do might provoke another silent treatment, a hex, or worse— flock of canaries. What exactly was she expecting?
She answered his question when she took his hand, interlacing their fingers, and turned to her side, facing her back to him. She pulled his arm along so he had no choice but to settle in behind her. She fit perfectly, as he'd always imagined she would, and he hoped she felt the same way too.
"Still cold?"
She laughed. "Nope."
Ron had lost all desire to sleep. He could have laid there all night, his head in her hair, holding her hand, savoring every minute.
"Ron?"
"Hmm."
"Happy Birthday."
He hadn't even realized the date. "Is it really—?"
She nodded. "What do you want for your birthday?"
From his current place— in bed with Hermione, he honestly couldn't think of anything more, or at least anything more he was willing to tell her. "Could I have my jumper back?"
Hermione laughed. "No."
"Oh," he said, trying to feign disappointment. "Worst birthday ever, then."
"You don't mean that."
He smiled as he slipped his arms tighter around her. "I don't."
And he didn't. In fact, he'd be more than fine if he never got his jumper back. Brilliant, even.