Shell Cottage, Winter 1997
Ron woke up tangled in his blanket, his arms pinned to his body as if someone had cast a body-bind curse in his sleep. The holes in the crochet pattern gaped open, exposing his bare skin, its loose threads shivering with him as a draft blew in from the open window. The room was so dark he could barely make out any shadows, but his mind played tricks on him. The faintest sliver of light creeping in from the window added just enough texture to the darkness that he could have sworn he wasn't alone. But she wasn't here, and he was very alone, as was his choice hours earlier.
He wiggled his hands free from the blanket and turned to his side, allowing his arm to drape across the pillow next to him. The familiar position made his chest tighten, and he couldn't help but imagine her in his arms, her back pressed to him, his face in her hair. He debated letting his mind travel down that road. The sound of her steady breath. The smell of her mint shampoo. The warmth of her body. But all he heard were the waves crashing on the beach outside Shell Cottage. The mint from the tea Fleur brewed for him earlier. And a very cold, lifeless pillow.
Bill had not stopped asking questions on that first night, and Ron had refused to answer any of them. He didn't have a clear answer to why he left, and it was impossible to explain the locket's logic that led him to abandon Harry and Hermione. Even if he could explain it, he knew Bill wouldn't understand. If Ron hadn't experienced it, he wouldn't have understood either. Even now, as the locket's influence faded, he still couldn't quite fathom why he left.
Unable to sleep, Ron jolted out of his bed and grabbed his wand. "Lumos."
Guided by the light, Ron scanned the room in search of his clothes. He had only brought the clothes on his back, and at the moment, he wished he had more. On a chair in the corner of the guest room sat his jeans and jumper, freshly washed and neatly folded. Fleur must have done that for him while he slept. His stomach felt heavy with guilt — he didn't deserve their hospitality.
On top of the pile of clothes sat a small gray object that Ron had nearly forgotten about — Dumbledore's deluminator. It must have been in his pocket when he'd arrived.
"Accio deluminator." The object flew across the room and into Ron's hand. He clicked it. Instead of lighting the room like it normally did, the object released a tiny ball of light. That light floated at eye level in the middle of the room, bouncing like a buoy on a lake.
Ron stared at the light for a long moment, willing it to do something. Anything. But nothing happened. He clicked off the deluminator, and the ball of light disappeared.
x
Ron tried to earn his keep over the following few days by cooking, doing dishes, and helping around the house, but the hippogriff in the room remained. He still didn't have an answer for Bill when he asked why Ron had left the other two in the woods. At least not one that he wanted to admit to.
Bill cornered him in the kitchen one morning and stood in the doorway to block Ron from leaving. "Please talk to me."
Ron sighed. "I have nothing to tell you."
"I don't believe you for a second."
Ron looked at his brother. His eyes were sunken with worry, and not in a way that was new. To Ron it looked like the fear of the last few months had been etched permanently into his face. His gaze pleaded with him to say more.
But there wasn't a way to explain what happened without telling Bill all about the Horcruxes. Either that, or he'd have to take responsibility for leaving, and without the influence of the locket, he never would have left. Right?
He tried to stop his mind from traveling down that road. What was worse than the locket making him leave was admitting that he might have done it anyway. If the locket's effect was a reflection of his own insecurities, a catalyst for actions he might have still taken, he didn't want Bill to know. He didn't even want himself to know.
"Did it have anything to do with Hermione?" asked Bill, hitting the nail a little too close to the head.
Ron's silence might as well have been an answer.
"You fucked up."
"Bill—" started Ron, desperate to fill in his blanks without giving away too much. There was more to the story. It wasn't that simple.
"Do you love her?"
Ron froze. No one had ever asked him that before, nor come close to realizing how far down that path Ron had gone. But Bill always seemed to know. Ron didn't have to say anything.
"You don't leave someone you love in the woods."
Obviously.
Ron's eyes welled with tears, and his throat clenched as if he had swallowed a rock. Bill was right. There was no lingering voice telling him otherwise, reminding him that it was Hermione's fault he left, or defending Ron. The locket was silent, and now Ron was alone with the consequences of his actions.
"I have to find them," said Ron.
Bill nodded. "Yeah. You do."
x
Later that night, Ron was alone in the guest bedroom. The deluminator sat on his bedside table, almost staring at him. Ron picked it up and clicked it. The same thing as before happened — a ball of light floated to the middle of the room.
"Can you help me find my way back?"
The ball of light bounced as if nodding yes, then began to float toward him, quickly, right to his chest. Ron's palms began to sweat and his heart rate spiked.
No. He clicked off the deluminator and the ball disappeared. He knew better than to trust an unfamiliar magical object, even if it had belonged to Dumbledore. Ron tossed the deluminator to the side and laid his head on the pillow, willing himself to fall asleep.
x
Over the next few days, that little ball of light consumed Ron's mind. He dreamt about the deluminator as he slept, he thought about it at dinner, and he stared at it intently whenever he was alone with it, willing it to reveal its secrets.
His unbreakable curiosity reminded Ron of his second year of Hogwarts, when Ginny became enamored with Riddle's diary. That couldn't be a good sign. It was a dream that finally convinced him to examine the light more intensely. In his dream, he let the light float inside him, and when it did, everything made sense. He knew how to find Harry and Hermione again, and it felt like lifting a veil. The irony of that wasn't lost on Ron — it's exactly how he felt when wearing the locket.
Maybe that's the reason he shouldn't trust it. Clearly, magical objects could influence the mind. On the other hand, maybe that was part of the locket's master plan. If it ruined his trust in his friends, maybe it could prevent him from trusting an object that could actually help him.
Fuck it, he had to try something. Ron accio'd the deluminator to his hand and clicked it. The mesmerizing ball of light appeared before him. He stared at it, willing it to do something.
Ron.
Ron froze, his eyes wide. Did the light just speak his name? Maybe he was hearing things, but he could have sworn that it did.
Ronald. Ron gasped at the sound of Hermione's voice. That was Hermione's voice right? Was he going mad?
The light began to glide toward him, and this time, he let it. It paused at his chest before pressing into him. As soon as the light entered, he felt warm. And just like in his dream, everything was clear. He knew exactly where they were. He didn't know how he knew, but felt no desire to question it.
Ron scrambled to put on his jumper and gather a few things Harry and Hermione might need. He grabbed a bag from the closet and shoved a few blankets and pillows inside before lugging it downstairs.
To his surprise, Bill was standing in the kitchen, looking out the window toward the sea as a kettle warmed on the stove.
"I know where they are," said Ron, his voice almost frantic. "I have to go."
Bill turned to him, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "You do?"
Ron nodded. He must have exuded a certain confidence, because Bill didn't question him further.
"Take some food with you." Without hesitation, Bill made his way to the pantry and began gathering food. "They're probably hungry."
The Forest of Dean, Winter 1997
Ron and Harry sat panting on the frozen forest floor, with the sword of Gryffindor dangling idly from Ron's hand. Harry's black hair stuck to his face and his body shivered violently with each breath.
"Oh, erm— I brought some more warm clothes." Ron reached for his bag and reached an arm deep into it, scrambling for a jumper. He had used the same charm that Hermione had on her purse, but he probably messed it up somehow. Things were always too difficult to find. "Accio jumper."
The jumper lurched from the bag into Ron's hand, and he tossed it to Harry, who put it on as though he couldn't get warm fast enough. "Thanks."
The pair sat in silence as Ron replayed what had just happened in his mind. It still didn't seem real. The way the locket broke and unleashed a powerful resistance to being destroyed. Seeing the voice that had played in Ron's mind for weeks personified in front of him. The final attempt at twisting reality into something it wasn't. Harry and Hermione kissing…
It almost looked like one of those badly edited muggle movies Hermione had shown him. It was completely mad. And yet, it almost felt real.
"She's like my sister," said Harry, breaking the silence between them.
A wave of relief washed over Ron. It seemed as though Harry was reading his mind. He glanced over at his best friend, and the look on his face suggested Harry was just as disturbed by what the locket had shown him as Ron was. "I know that now."
"She cried for days after you left."
Ron's heart sank at the image of Hermione's face soaked in tears. The last time he had seen that was last year… right before she unleashed a flock of canaries on him. Why was he so good at doing that to her?
"I have to see her."
Harry was silent at first as he jangled the broken, lifeless locket in his hand. "She's angry."
"I don't care."
x
Hours later, Ron sat on the couch in the tent, still damp from his rendezvous at the frozen lake, but the cold he felt had nothing to do with that. Angry was an understatement. Since Ron had returned, Hermione had cried, screamed at him, and threatened to have him splinched again, among other things. His eyes stung with tears, but he held them in.
What was he expecting? Her to fall into his arms? He knew her better than that. Forgiveness was hard earned from Hermione, but he'd done it before. She was slow to trust, but it was always worth the effort.
Ron spotted a few dirty dishes piled up in the kitchen and sprung to his feet. The very least he could do was make himself helpful. He busied himself scourgifying and tried to put Hermione out of his mind. As if that was remotely possible.
Moments later, her voice sounded behind him, making him jump.
"How did you find us?" She was standing at the kitchen table, glowering at Ron, and her voice dripped with disdain. "I thought our concealment charms were strong enough, but apparently not."
Ron's initial impulse was to argue with her and defend himself, but he resisted, even though he felt his whole body ignite. It was a defense mechanism, and he knew that now.
Swallow your pride.
"The deluminator," he said. "It showed me how to find you."
From the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione cock an eyebrow inquisitively, so he continued.
"I clicked it on and a ball of light formed. It floated into my chest— my heart— and when it did, I just knew where you were. So I apparated."
It sounded completely ridiculous, but it was true.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "So you blindly trusted a magical object again?"
Ron swallowed his desire to argue. "Not at first. That's why it took me so long. But I was desperate to find you again."
Hermione continued to glower at him, but didn't seem to have a response. After a few moments of silence, she huffed and walked away.
Ron ignored the stinging in his eyes as he continued tidying the kitchen. Progress would be too slow to notice this quickly, but it would come.
x
They continued to coexist in relative silence over the next few days, with Hermione purposefully leaving the immediate vicinity anytime Ron entered, and Ron performing favor after favor to get back into her good books. Harry tiptoed around the tent so as to not get tangled up in the tension between the two.
Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed that every small gesture chipped away at the iron wall Hermione held up. He could have sworn it took her a microsecond longer to leave the room each time he entered, and her scowls softened each new day. It's possible he was seeing things in order to gather encouragement, or maybe she was tired of keeping him at an arm's length.
It was a rainy evening when he decided to examine the boundary. Hermione was keeping watch, Harry was tucked away in the bedroom, and Ron stood in the kitchen brewing tea. It was second nature now to bring her tea every time she kept watch. At first she ignored it, and each cup would sit on the floor till the tea turned cold, but she gave in eventually. Yesterday, she even thanked him.
Ron plopped down next to her and handed her a mug. Without looking at him, she took it. To his surprise, she didn't shift away from him, although she didn't move closer either. The pair sat in silence before Ron mustered up the courage to say something.
"I'm sorry."
The words felt weak coming from him. An apology could never encompass that level of guilt, shame, and regret.
She didn't say anything back, but after a few moments, Ron saw out of the corner of his eye that she was crying. And then, in a gesture he didn't expect, she leaned her head onto his shoulder.
Without second guessing himself, he wrapped an arm around her, and let her tears soak the sleeve of his jumper.
x
It was one of the first warm days in a while, and Ron found himself enjoying his morning tea outside in the sun. They had set up their tent near a small pond, which had recently melted thanks to the warming temperatures. Ron dug a little circle in the rocks to hold his mug and picked up a relatively flat stone. He flipped it around his palm, examining its smoothness, before flicking it toward the surface of the lake. The stone bounced on the water five times before sinking with a plunk.
Ron grabbed another stone and did it again. He had forgotten how meditative skipping rocks could be. It was something he did as a kid when he needed to escape the chaos of the Burrow. Ron got lost in the sound of the splashes and didn't notice footsteps approaching him.
"I've always wanted to learn how to do that."
Hermione's voice caught him by surprise. She hadn't spoken much to him unless it was absolutely necessary, but there she was, standing next to him on the rocks, her palm outstretched toward the stone in his hand.
"I can show you."
Trying to prevent a giddy smile, Ron dove into a lecture on his rock-skipping technique, showing Hermione how to find the perfect rock, how to hold it, how to throw it, and where to aim. She watched him with an ever so slight smile on her face.
"So, like this?" Hermione flicked a rock toward the surface, and it landed with a single splash.
"Erm, not quite."
"Okay, then show me."
Ron raised an eyebrow at her, but she didn't break eye contact. "Alright then." He approached her and turned her around so that she pressed her back to him. "Okay crouch down really low."
He nearly regretted asking that of her when he felt her bum up against him, and he willed his body to hold back any indication that she drove him completely mental.
"Hold it like this," he said as he took her wrist in his hand. "Then flick it."
With his guidance, the rock flung from Hermione's hand toward the lake, skipping three times before plunking below the surface. "Just like that."
Hermione stood back and admired her work — the three splash rings spread on the otherwise glassy lake. "Cool."
"Kinda cool that I taught you something new, huh?" said Ron, hoping she could hear the joking tone of his voice.
"Finally making yourself useful around here."
Ron snorted as she turned away, but he didn't miss her smirk before she began her trek back up to the tent.
It wasn't exactly forgiveness, but they were getting closer.
x
The air was crisp by nightfall, wind pounded against the tent canvas, and Ron lay wrapped in a blanket on his bed, trying to prevent his teeth from chattering. It wasn't just the cold that kept him up, but the fact that Hermione was also in the bed next to him, and he could hear her muttering warming charms underneath her blanket.
Harry was on watch for the remainder of the night, and he had taken the extra blankets with him — he needed them much more from his position, but Ron wished he had brought even more from Shell Cottage.
There was one way to guarantee warmth for both of them, but Ron didn't dare suggest it to Hermione. He knew better than to risk his life like that. So he continued to lay there, shivering, listening to Hermione's unsuccessful warming charms, thinking of the way her body felt pressed against his down by the lake earlier that day…
"Ron? Are you awake?"
Hermione's whisper pulled him from his overactive thoughts. "Yeah."
"Are you cold?"
Obviously. "Yeah."
Ron heard shuffling blankets, then Hermione's footsteps on the cold hard floor before his own blanket ruffled and Hermione slipped into his bed.
"Is this okay?"
Ron swallowed the lump in his throat. "Yeah." Was that the only thing he could say?
Hermione turned away from him and cozied up; her back pressed against him just like before. Instinctively, Ron slipped his arm around her waist.
Was this really happening?
"Hermione?"
"What?" she muttered, her voice muffled by the blankets.
"Does this mean you forgive me?"
Hermione paused, and Ron felt another lump form in his throat. He may have spoken too soon.
"It just means I'm cold," she finally answered. She reached for his arm and pulled it tighter around her body.
Ron smiled and he held her to him, finding himself extra thankful for the frigid air.
x
Hermione went about her business the following day as if nothing had happened. She still answered Ron's questions with a single word, she didn't speak to him more than necessary, nor make prolonged eye contact when he tried to initiate a conversation about it. Any indication that her stance on him had softened disappeared by breakfast.
He thought back to last night, and the way he cradled her under the covers, and yesterday, and the flash of a smile on her face while skipping rocks down by the lake. Was all that a fluke? Moments of weakness where she let her walls come down too quickly? He desperately wanted to talk about it. He wanted to pick a fight with her and ask her how she dared get his hopes up by sleeping next to him or engaging in lighthearted moments by the lake. He wanted to find her alone in a room, push her against a wall, and kiss her to see if she'd let him. But he knew that was a great way to get slapped in the face and lose any progress he'd made in earning her forgiveness. If anything, a simple conversation was needed, but Harry never seemed to leave them alone long enough to present an opportunity.
To Ron's surprise, it happened again the next night Harry was on watch. After trying to no avail to get warm, Hermione eventually padded over to his bed and slipped underneath the covers. His logical brain told him he should push her away, tell her that she had no business toying with his mind like this, but that's not what he did. She fit so perfectly against him, her backside molded to him nicely that it forced those logical thoughts to take a back seat. So instead of pushing her away, Ron wrapped an arm around her and buried his face in her hair.
Then, just to see how she'd react, he uncovered some skin on her neck and pressed his lips to it. Just a kiss, nothing more. Hermione stiffened in his arms at first, and then softened, and Ron took that as a cue to carry on — his face in her hair, his lips on her neck, and his body pressed against hers in a way that surpassed the simple need for warmth.
x
It kept happening. Every night Harry was on watch, Hermione would start in her bed and end in his. She'd press her back to him, and he'd bury his face in her hair, let him kiss her anywhere but her lips, and Harry would be none the wiser.
Yet in the morning, she would pretend nothing happened. And Ron would follow her lead, never saying anything for fear ruining the progress he'd made. He knew it didn't make sense, but if she wasn't going to forgive him yet, those cold nights gave him something to hope for.
At some point, the nights stopped being so frigid, and Ron and Hermione lost her excuse to sleep with him, but that didn't seem to matter. She still crawled into his bed without fail.
One night, as Ron wrapped her up in his arms, he whispered in her ear, "It's not cold anymore."
Hermione nodded. "You're right."
"So, does this mean you forgive me?"
Hermione flipped onto her back and met his gaze. "No. It just means I missed you."
Ron felt his heart both flutter and sink, but it lifted when he realized she was looking directly at his lips.
"And I missed you," he said, not bothering to hide the fact that he was looking at her lips too.
They had to talk about it eventually, and Ron had to figure out how to bridge the gap between being missed and being forgiven. But by the way she pulled at the neck of his t-shirt until his lips crashed against hers, for the very first time since he left, now was not the time to talk.
Ron's mind went blank and his body took over. The kiss opened the floodgates, and everything he'd been holding back came pouring out in that moment. Yes, full, complete forgiveness would take time, but they might not have time, and he wanted every moment available to him. His fingers tangled into her hair and he shifted on top of her. Hermione responded in kind, by wrapping her legs around his waist and holding him in place against her.
"Are you okay with this?" he asked the moment he came up for air.
Hermione answered nonverbally, by sliding her hand down his torso until it landed at the front of joggers. Her fingers tousled the drawstring in inquiry.
Without letting himself overthink it, Ron dove back in for another kiss. Hermione made quick work of his drawstring until his joggers were loose enough to slip off, followed by his underwear. He let her take the lead, reveling in the fact that there was no unwelcome voice in his head telling him he didn't deserve to be in bed with the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. No mocking locket stopped him from running his hands underneath her shirt and over her perfect breasts, then to her waistband. He hooked a finger underneath the elastic and paused, his hesitation a question of its own.
With a nod, Hermione lifted her hips enough to allow Ron to slide her clothes right off. Seeing her naked underneath him, and the onslaught of emotion that followed, only confirmed that the influence of the locket was a distant memory.
She was the perfect reprieve from the stress of the war. At her direction, he trailed kisses along her neck, one hand still tangled in her hair, the other on her breast. Her legs tightened their grip around him, and she didn't seem to mind the fact that his erection pressed firmly against her inner thigh.
"Do you know the contraceptive charms?" she whispered into his ear.
Ron froze in place, replaying her question in his mind to assure he heard her correctly. "Yes but… are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Hermione, not when you're still mad—"
"Please?"
Ron wanted her more than anything, and he'd be mental to argue. And although he would have preferred this moment to be perfect, that was true for all moments with her. In a perfect world, she wouldn't be angry with him, there'd be no war, no Lavender, no Krum. Harry wouldn't be sitting at the tent opening keeping watch, threatening to march into the bedroom and interrupt them at any moment. Ron might miss his chance completely if he kept waiting for perfect.
So fuck waiting. Ron reached for his wand to cast a contraceptive spell on both himself and Hermione, and a muffliato charm to surround them, then tossed it next to his bed before turning his focus back to her. With a nod, she snaked her arms around his neck. He pressed his lips to hers, then his hips, before carefully guiding himself into her. The darkness of the world around them seemed to fade away as he relished in her warmth. Her breath hitched against his neck and sent a wave of goosebumps down his spine. His heartbeat quickened, and he reveled in the way her fingernails dug into the skin on his back. Ron watched her eyes glaze over with pleasure in a way that drove him absolutely mad. He buried his head into her neck, soaking up every sensation of her body as she held him tightly to her, trapping him in a world where momentarily, everything was perfect.
x
Ron looked at a breathless Hermione beside him. He kept his mouth glued shut, even though his heart ached to tell her exactly how he felt in that moment. He forced himself to remember that she was still angry with him, and she hadn't forgiven him.
But she had admitted to missing him, to wanting him, and now they laid in bed together, naked and panting. Would those three little words that threatened to escape his mouth really be that out of place? Wouldn't she welcome them?
Deep down, he knew she wouldn't say them back. Even if she felt them too. He was still building his bridge back to her.
She glanced up at him and offered a rare smile. "Thank you, Ron."
Fuck it. Maybe he should just say it.
Unfortunately, there was no time. Everything happened so fast — a distant rustling of trees beyond the tent caught Ron's attention, then Harry called for them in a panic. Jumping into autopilot, Ron and Hermione leapt from the bed, donned their clothes back on and reached for their wands. By the time they'd met up with Harry at the tent opening, their protective charms around the tent had failed. Snatchers surrounded their tent and penetrated the wards, and were quickly closing in on them.
Fuck.
Despite weeks of planning and preparation, they only had time to react. Ron didn't let himself think for fear of delaying action. As if someone else was operating his body, he started throwing hexes and dodging flashes of light meant to either stun or disarm him. He looked beside him and saw that Harry and Hermione were doing the same, and for a moment, he hoped for the best.
But they were outnumbered. They couldn't run or hide, they could only fight back, but it wasn't long before all three of them were disarmed and surrounded. Ron glanced at Hermione, who had her hands bound behind her back by — was that Greyback?
Overwhelmed by dread, Ron felt a rush of anger at himself for not preventing this somehow, and regret for not telling her how he felt. What if that had been his last opportunity to?
No — don't think like that.
"Look at that scar on your forehead," sneered the snatcher who had Harry bound by the arms. "Could it be?"
"You don't think—" said another one, squinting at Harry through a pair of broken glasses. "Have we found him?"
"Are you the blood traitor then?" hissed a voice beside Ron, who squirmed in the grip of two men stronger than him.
"Then she might be the mudblood—"
A whimper escaped Hermione's lips, and Ron's heart broke at the sound.
He kept trying to fight and free himself from the mens' grip, but to no avail. Instead, he was forced to listen to them discuss their next steps, whether they should bring the trio directly to the Ministry, or to the dark lord himself.
He locked eyes with Hermione, hoping he could communicate with her, tell her everything would be okay. That they'd get through this. That he loved her.
It was the first time since he'd returned that she'd held his gaze for more than a few moments. Her eyes were wet with tears.
"It's settled then, we won't go to the ministry, nor will we go directly to the dark lord, just in case we have the wrong people," said the man next to Harry. "We'll check in with Bellatrix first. At Malfoy Manor."
Ron kept his eyes locked on Hermione, but it wasn't long before she and Harry disappeared along with a loud crack. Only seconds later, the man pinning Ron down snapped his fingers, and whisked him away into the dark void of apparition.