A/N: Hey everyone, remember this fic? :)

I don't have good excuses for taking so long, but I have managed to read 14 books and complete 2 video games in my absence! Soccer season started again and the weather is nicer, both of which keep me a little busier. I also got a big new project at work (ewwwww, believe me, I KNOW) so I haven't been able to slack off as much as I'd like. All good things for brain chemicals, I think, but not so great for this little story getting put down on paper (screen?), especially when one isn't a very fast writer…which I am not.

I did find some momentum this past weekend though, so here is a very overdue update! I hope y'all enjoy, and comment if you like it!

As always, huge thanks to cheesyficwriter and accio_broom!

Ron glanced sidelong at the prone form breathing heavily in the passenger seat of the rental car. Hermione's forehead was wrinkled, even in sleep, and Ron resisted the urge to brush her wild hair off her face. She always pinched her eyebrows like that when she was concerned. Shaking his head, he let out a frustrated puff of air and focused again on his driving.

Hermione fucking Granger.

He didn't think he'd ever forget the way she'd looked when he'd knocked on her door. Shocked, bewildered, yes, these things he'd been expecting, but the rest of it…

She'd had flushed cheeks, curls escaping from her messy bun, her lower lip caught in her teeth, and new, gentle lines in the skin around her eyes, eyes that were positively alive with all the thoughts that took space in the recesses of her brilliant mind. Age had done nothing at all to diminish her. She was just as he remembered. Curious, determined, intelligent, well-spoken– all the things that'd drawn him to her in the first place.

Of course, she could still be idealistic to the point of naivety. It was maddening how she never seemed to learn. She was bossy and quick-tempered, and yet, somehow those things only served to draw him to her more.

What could he say? Ron Weasley was self-aware enough to deem himself a passionate person, and he believed his most rewarding personal relationships, even of the non-romantic variety, fueled passion with passion.

He shouldn't trust her; he knew that, even if she did uncover emotions he'd thought long-buried. It wasn't love, or any ridiculous notion that might besot a teenager, but there was an undeniable sense of knowing. His soul knew hers. It'd recognized hers behind all her walls and filled him with nostalgia so rich he could taste it.

She never had viewed spirituality the same way he did, but it didn't matter to Ron whether Hermione's pragmatic nature allowed her to agree with him or not. He'd learned even more as an adult to trust his intuition, and he listened to the unconscious recognitions in his mind as often as he could decipher them.

Right now, his every nerve ending lit with the knowledge that he couldn't trust her. What kind of person unceremoniously threw everything away for a job? She'd left disaster in her wake, and didn't seem to care how much they'd all missed her, given how focused she was on clearing her name.

To be fair, he supposed if he were faced with the entire might of the Ministry, he'd probably respond in kind. Hell, he was going to be faced with similar charges too, as soon as the 72-hour mark passed.

Ron rolled his head, taking in a deep breath as he stretched his neck and shoulders. This was purely transactional. They didn't have time to nurse his old wounds. He'd moved on. It was more important to focus on their survival. If, after it was done, she wanted to go back to pretending that they all– that he– meant nothing to her? Well, that was her prerogative.

Besides, she was in a lot of trouble. As soon as he'd read the warrant outlining her arrest, he knew he'd have to get to her first. He had a lot of reasons to mistrust the Ministry, but the reward they were offering for Hermione…it was unheard of. It set off immediate alarm bells. She either WAS guilty, in which case he had to hear it for himself to prove it to his traitorous heart, or she was innocent, and then…well…

He'd decided to help her before he'd heard anything she'd said in the Fields. Would he assist anyone in her situation? Given his general mistrust of the Ministry and the deliberate way he lived his life (flaunting their corrupt policies and operating within his own parameters), it was likely he would try to help anyone in her situation.

Would he go on the run with anyone? Throw his career away for anyone?

His ears burned at the thought, and he pulled out his sunglasses, slapping them on his face as quickly as he could. It wouldn't do to let her read him. She always did know him much too well.

As if on cue, Hermione began to stir, blinking slowly into consciousness. He wordlessly handed her a plastic cup of iced coffee, and she nodded gratefully, yawning before she took her first sip.

"Back in the car?"

"Yup."

"How did we leave the place of the Druids?" She rubbed her fingers under her sleepy eyes.

"I carried you."

She froze, and Ron mirrored her reaction, surprised he'd let that tidbit slip.

"It was a twenty-minute hike from the portal to the car."

"It was also a Muggle land conservation. I couldn't risk levitation."

He never shifted his gaze from the road, but in his peripheral, he observed Hermione pick at the peeling sticker of the coffee cup.

"What if you'd run into someone? It's not exactly kosher to be seen carrying an unconscious woman."

"I'd have shaken you awake. When did you become such a heavy sleeper, by the way?"

"I'm not, usually. The Fields are…something else."

"Isolde warned that we'd feel drained."

She leaned back in her seat, sighing. "You don't seem drained."

He shrugged. "We're on the clock."

She started, turning as much as she could with her seatbelt on, a panicked look on her face. "I forgot about the 72 hours. What time is it? How much has passed?"

Her frantic movements had instinctively set Ron on edge, but he'd managed to keep his surprise limited to a single clench of his jaw. It'd taken him a long time to become the master of his reactions, and he wasn't going to let Hermione Granger undo all that after a mere three days.

He kept his voice as calm as he could.

"The time we spent with the Druids was about half that out here."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that our grace period will expire in four hours."

"Four hours." She sank back into her seat, coffee forgotten in her hand. Ron snagged it from her and put it in the cupholder before she dropped it.

Her wavering voice spoke again, though he detected traces of her trademark defiance. "And where are we going now?"

"My safehouse."

"You have a safehouse?"

"I have a few. One in Ireland."

"Why?"

"Why in Ireland? Or why do I have safehouses?"

"The latter."

"I don't trust the Ministry."

"Why not?"

"Long story."

His tone was harder than he meant it to be, but he wasn't prepared to talk about this right now. Ron drove, lost in his thoughts, for almost half an hour before she spoke again.

"I get that our history is long and complicated," she started, and the low cadence of her voice sent a shiver down his spine. She adopted this more deliberate register when she was being serious about something, and then only fools stood in Hermione's way. "I don't expect you to forgive me if you don't want to. Merlin knows I don't deserve it, but for the sake of our survival, you can't keep dangling my past over my head like it's a mistake I repeat every day. We don't have to be friends, but we do need to work together enough to figure this out. Together, Ron. No more making decisions in a vacuum, and no more taking me to places without any explanation!"

Her nostrils flared, a sure sign of her fire. All his favourite memories with her started with her nostrils flaring. He was surprised to find that he entertained the momentary impulse to argue with her, and something of a forgotten ember sparked to life in his chest.

But no, that Ron was long gone. He was in control of himself completely now. No room for error.

Besides, what she was requesting was not only fair, it was common courtesy. He'd been avoiding talking with her as much as he could to this point, but they'd walked down a path from which there was no return and from now on, they only had each other.

"Okay," he agreed.

"Okay?" She gaped at him. "I was expecting a bit more."

"Right." He stopped to think. "We both know the Ministry is corrupt, and they're clearly trying to make you the scapegoat for something. Let's just say, I've seen this side of them before. That, plus the responsibility that I took in becoming the Druid's Ally, made me think that the possibility of needing to become unplottable to the Ministry was probably not too remote. I took precautions."

"A safehouse."

"Yes. Once we're on the property, they won't be able to find us without really complicated magic, which is not only time consuming, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you, but also quite expensive. It should buy us a little time while we plan our next move."

She was silent, apparently taking this information in. "We will plan it?" she asked, finally. "Both of us?"

He jerked his head in response. Satisfied, she looked out her window just as he turned off the small road onto an unpaved single lane. The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the sedan as he adopted a more moderate speed, following the turns and curves of the long, dusty driveway.

A strong sensation began to pull at him, an unmistakable feeling of having forgotten to do something. What was it? He thought it likely back in Dublin, possibly even London. It was something important that he'd forgotten to do. He should leave right now, and go do it.

Ron gritted his teeth and shook his head, keeping his eyes focused on the road in front of him. He bit his cheek, drawing a trace amount of blood, and the metallic sting of the iron on his tongue kept him in the moment.

Hermione fidgeted in the seat next to him, checking over her shoulder out the window and squirming as she readjusted the seatbelt.

"Protection spell?" she asked.

He nodded. "A fucking strong one."

"No joke."

After a few more uncomfortable minutes, a white cottage, complete with thatched roofing, popped into view, a bright spot against the rolling greens of the early autumn countryside.

Ron, familiar with the timing, slowed the car to a crawl as one last surge of the protection spells railed in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then the spell's hold on them broke as he breached the low stone wall surrounding the home. All at once, it was much easier to breathe.

Ron parked the car along the side of the house, then extended his arm across the centre console, stilling Hermione's movements. "Wait here."

He hopped out and, withdrawing his wand from its holster on his hip, flicked it at all four corners of the small property with practised, nonverbal spells. One by one, each corner seemed to shoot lightning upwards, until all four met at a point above his head in the centre of the yard. He ran his left fingers lightly over the watercolour-styled storm cloud inked on his right inner arm, above his wrist, then plunged his fist into the ball of crackling static electricity.

It shocked him a couple of times, like the stings of snapping rubber bands, then exploded outwards, forming a dome over the house that shone an opaque yellow colour for a moment before fading from sight.

He turned around to gesture to Hermione that it was safe to leave the car, but found her instead standing behind him, gaping open-mouthed at the house.

"I told you to wait!"

She was unabashed as she shrugged a shoulder. "Did the magic accept us then?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "We're shielded from view, at least for a little while."

"This house, Ron," she murmured, taking in the ivy that crawled along the wooden lattices leaning against the white stone walls. "It's beautiful."

"I like it." He strode to the front door, which was a cheery, green colour, though the paint was peeling, and tapped his wand against it in a practised pattern. "I stop by here every two to three months for maintenance. It's not lived in very often, but should be clean and safe enough for us today."

The door shimmered and opened, and he stood to the side, gesturing for her to walk in first. Hermione's eyes were shining with moisture as she took in the thatched roofing. "You do the upkeep here?"

"Of course," he said, puzzled. "It's my house, isn't it?"

She gave a short, almost maniacal laugh and rubbed at her eyes before walking through the front door. Ron followed, satisfied when he heard the familiar low hum of the door locking itself behind him.

The cottage was quaint, to say the least, with an open ground floor, single bath, and lofted bedroom space. Hermione was rotating on the spot, taking in the simple, rustic furnishings. Feeling awkward, as though it was somehow he and not the house under scrutiny, Ron manoeuvred around the loveseat and snagged a red apple off the top of a basket of fake fruit that sat on the rough stone mantle of a worn fireplace.

At his touch, the apple flashed hot and then a painting of the Dublin skyline, set into an ornate gold frame, creaked away from the wall on hinges, revealing a small storage space. He shoved the faux apple in his pocket and set about removing the contents of the safe.

"How did you do that?"

A cursory glance at Hermione almost made his lips twitch in a smile. Her expression was a mixture of confusion and astonishment as she looked back and forth between the basket of fake fruit and the now open compartment.

"Flesh memory," he said, snagging the apple from his pocket and holding it up. "When I, and I alone, touch this apple, it triggers the magic to unlock the safe. I got the idea from–"

"A snitch?" She asked, examining the apple in the palm of his hand. Her curls grazed the sensitive skin of his wrist and he tried to suppress the involuntary shiver.

"Don't look so surprised," she added, misinterpreting his silence. "You were so into Quidditch; of course I read up about it."

He withdrew the apple and shoved it in his pocket again, continuing to empty the safe instead of analysing what she could possibly mean by saying that.

"There we go," he grunted, drawing her attention to the pile of cash and documentation on the coffee table. "Looks like about ten thousand euros in cash and a handful of fake identities to choose from."

She glanced at him, seeming stunned into silence. She reached a tentative hand for the stack of Muggle passports, and when he nodded, began to flip through them.

"Do you always keep so much fraudulent documentation?"

The question was probably supposed to sound more flippant than it did, her voice breaking a bit on the last word.

"I like to keep options available, yeah," he answered, digging through the paperwork. "Each passport should have a corresponding apparition licence."

"I guess I'll be Neave Wallingford," she said, flashing the small photo at him before examining it. "A few spells to straighten and darken my hair, and I won't be that far off."

"Brilliant, there's a Mr Wallingford in here I think." Ron extracted the passport. Ivan Wallingford was a tall man with blonde hair and a handlebar moustache. "We'll have to hide some of my beard– I am not shaving it– but the hair colour should be easy enough."

When he looked up at her, her gaze was frozen on him.

"I seem to have driven you to silence again." He was unable to resist the temptation to tease her, however lightly. "What is it this time?"

"We're going to, erm, act married?"

He shrugged. "Easiest way to travel together, especially considering that I'm not removing your handcuff."

"What?" Her expression shifted to one of indignance and Ron had to fight the disloyal impulse to laugh. "Ron, you can't be serious. That's absurd."

"I am serious, Hermione. I'll have to give you your wand back, that seems unavoidable, and I'll extend the cuff's range to thirty metres, but I will not take it off."

She glared at him, putting her hands on her hips. "You really still think that I will run?"

"Are you asking if I trust you?"

He hadn't meant to ask it, but the question– the big, hard question they'd been avoiding– slipped past his guard. They stared at each other, and she opened her mouth as though her answer was dancing on the tip of her tongue, but then she pressed her lips together in a thin line and shook her head, looking away.

Did he trust her? He wasn't sure. He trusted that she'd act in her own self-interest, which right now was aligned to staying by his side, but that situation could change at any moment.

"Great, now that we have our new IDs decided, let's talk about travel plans." He scooped the remaining documents and shoved them back in the secret compartment, then tossed the fake apple atop the fruit basket. The safe sealed itself without a sound.

Hermione lowered herself so she was perched on the loveseat, and, after a moment's hesitation, he sat on the thick lip of the brick hearth, bending his long legs in front of him. He couldn't bear to share the loveseat with her, to sit so near her when his every instinct was warring with himself.

"I propose we go to Easter Island," she said, and he nodded.

"I've been thinking the same. Tell me about the surge of magic from your report."

"That's just it, it wasn't anything special." She bit her lip, and, unable to bear the sight, he had to turn to face the painting, though he listened intently to her words. "The Department of Mysteries always monitors magic surges across the world. We have instruments everywhere, usually in coordinated effort with other Ministries, to generally keep a pulse on big magical signatures."

"Why?"

"It's an antiquated practice really. Hundreds of years ago, a large pulse of magic might warn us of anything from a natural disaster, like an earthquake, to a particularly high influx of witches and wizards being born that year. It's unreliable, and usually insignificant, but could theoretically inform us of something bad coming our way."

"Hmm." Ron rubbed a hand along his bearded jaw. "Like someone performing powerful evil spells they shouldn't be."

"Exactly."

"And you detected a surge in the Easter Islands?"

"Yes, it was my shift to monitor the readings, and I recorded a moderately sized pulse of magic. I checked the records and it's never happened around Easter Island before, so there was no precedent or pattern to worry about it. The size wasn't alarming; it was most likely indicative of a small tidal wave or maybe a local wizard accidentally blew something up. I reported it as per the standard procedure and went home for dinner."

"Where I found you."

"Yes."

"That's not good." Ron sighed, leaning back against the sharp edges of the mantle. "That means the Ministry mobilised against you quickly. They know something we don't."

"I know, I've been thinking that too. They could have redacted all the previous records of Easter Island, or interpreted the readings I reported differently than me somehow." Her brow furrowed as she thought. "I keep feeling like I'm missing something."

"Whatever it is, I'm missing it too," Ron said, impulsively reaching to touch her arm but pulling back before making contact. He cleared his throat. "I think we'll only find out when we go see it."

"But how do we get there? It's much too far to apparate."

"I think there's a regular portkey route from Dublin to Santiago. If you check the binder under there?" He pointed to the open shelf under the coffee table, which he couldn't reach for cramming his tall form onto the low bench. "There should be a portkey route schedule."

He extracted himself from his uncomfortable position to stand while Hermione wordlessly scanned through the binder, stretching as he waited for her assessment.

"It's twice a day," she reported. "6:34 am and 7:21 pm."

"I don't think we should go tonight. Our 72 hours expires in," he checked his watch, "45 minutes, and they will be on high alert at all travel ports in the interim. Let's go tomorrow morning, bright and early," he suggested. "Sunday is a busy travel day, so hopefully there will be a crowd we can blend into."

She frowned, thinking and then nodded. "Okay. We'll need extra time in the morning to charm ourselves into looking like Neave and Ivan."

"Good point." He passed the kitchen peninsula and pulled open the freezer door, examining its contents. "Let's eat then so we can get to bed early. Your options are pizza or…pizza."

She laughed, a short but genuine laugh that made his ears warm and he turned, smiling at her sheepishly across the counter, despite himself.

"I regret introducing you to frozen pizza," she said, making a show of rolling her eyes. "Do you still eat it as much as you did at uni?"

"Well, can't keep fresh produce in a safehouse, can I? Long term storage only." He gestured at the deep freeze. "So what'll it be? Veggie?"

She snorted. "I don't believe for a second that you have a veggie pizza. Pepperoni is more like it."

"Ooo," he said, pulling a thin box out. "How about pineapple?"

"WHAT?"

"You've never tried it–"

"I absolutely refuse to eat that garbage."

"It's really quite good."

"Said nobody ever."

He grinned, turning to preheat the small gas oven and ignoring the floating sensation in his chest. This was nice. It wasn't real, he knew that. He wouldn't let himself fall into that trap again.

But, just for a single, spectacular moment, it was nice to pretend.