Rage. Among his internal frenzy of emotions—among the terror, the relief, and the fear—it is rage that consumes him as he sits by her bedside, using all his restraint to hold her hands gently within his own. His fingers trail softly over hers with a tenderness that extends beyond this moment of fragility. It is clear that he will never touch this girl with anything but the utmost care. Yet despite his soothing actions, he is still crumbling under the weight of his own anger. He can feel it in the uncomfortably tight spot in his chest, the tense vein in his neck and the pressure on his knees. He can feel it in his uneven, forced breaths. With each new inhale he tries to remind himself that she's safe, but this anchor of reassurance is never unaccompanied. She's safe is followed by her limp, crumpled form on the floor of Malfoy Manor. By her terrified, plaintive pleas begging them to understand that, for perhaps the first time in her life, she simply didn't know the answers to their questions. By her tortured screams—screams that, even as memories, cause him to stop breathing altogether.
He wants to blame them—the Malfoys, the Death Eaters, even Voldemort himself—for doing this to her. For taking the person with the most spirit and passion he knows and draining her of life. But he can't. He hates them, sure, but what else could he expect from evil people if not the unimaginably cruel? He just always expected himself to be there, ready to stop them from hurting the people he cared about. In the face of the inevitable clash of good and evil, he was supposed to be her shield.
A small voice wants to defend him from himself, insisting that he did everything he could—he offered to take her place, he shouted her name with all his might, and in the end he was the one who spirited her away to safety. But as he takes in the ugly red gash across her neck, the frightening pallor of her skin, he knows that everything he could is synonymous with failure.
Suddenly she stirs, and for a moment she is frantic, her eyes wild. When she meets his gaze, slowly her panic begins to recede, her breathing becoming more regular. In a weak, scratchy voice she lets out one word: Ron.
She says his name with relief, with thanks—with everything he doesn't deserve. Propelled by feelings of ineptitude, he leaps from his sitting position and quickly settles himself next to her on the bed, wrapping his arms around her. She adjusts herself so that her head is lying on his chest, and then closes her eyes. This brief interaction has drained her of the little energy she has. Before drifting off into sleep, she says his name again, her voice so soft that it is captured within the fibers of his sweater. For the moment, she looks and sounds at peace.
He brings his hand up and down her back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture, his mind left to ponder in awe the depths of her forgiveness. He feels immature, unprepared, and ungrateful. He feels foolish. He feels stupid. But underneath the self-loathing, he can't help but do what he usually does—take his cue from Hermione. Lying in bed, with his arms wrapped about her, knowing that they are safe, he feels strangely at peace. As he allows himself to close his own eyes, ready to join Hermione in sleep, a singular thought occurs to him: that in addition to fighting for his family, his friends, and for what he knows is right, he is now also fighting for a lifetime of peace, full of moments like this one.