Written for Speed Drabble.
It's dark out again. The stormy clouds hover over England, and the once familiar action preceding a rainy day now has a very different meaning. The two of them huddle in a broken down house, sheltering themselves as best they can.
Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, they share warmth.
"It's going to be okay," Ron says, and if Hermione tries hard enough, she can believe it. But she's tired and grieving so instead, she reaches out for his fingers and clutches them until her knuckles are bone-white. If they're trembling, he doesn't say anything.
Hermione falls asleep first. She's not comfortable by any means, but her jacket is pulled tight around her, and eventually, she's lulled into a dozing state. Ron stays determinedly awake, staring sightlessly into the wall, ears perked for any sort of movement or noise.
It doesn't come.
At three in the morning, Ron nudges her awake, and she transfers the jacket over to him so he can sleep for a bit. They had worked out this system of watching and sleeping a while ago with Harry.
Harry.
Just the thought of it brings a fresh wave of grief to her. Hermione presses her lips together and wills the tears back, hunching in on herself. She thinks it might've been just yesterday, or maybe even a while ago. She doesn't know. Time doesn't seem to matter anymore.
When she closes her eyes, the images flash unbidden through her head. She can see his mangled arm, bitten nearly through by the zombies. She remembers how they had barely managed to grab a hold of his body after being bitten. She remembers their trembling fingers—hers and Ron's—and that one loud, echoing shot through his forehead.
And now it was just the two of them. The Golden trio was no more.