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She’s laughing. The first real laugh she’s let out in what feels like months.
The sun beats down on her as she stands in the garden. She shields her eyes against the glare, shoulders shaking with giggles as Ron swears loudly, throwing the garden gnome that had bitten him about twenty feet away. It lands in the muddy pond with a dull splash, its tiny legs kicking up a wave of water. Ron huffs, his face flushed with irritation at Hermione’s continued giggling, but there’s an underlying amusement in his expression as he rolls his eyes.
“Ron, you’re supposed to be careful with them!” Hermione teases. Shaking her head fondly.
“Careful? With a blasted gnome that just tried to bite me?” Ron says dryly, “I think not.” He glares at the gnome in satisfaction, its little legs kicking up in the air, having splashed headfirst into the pond.
“It’s more like a public service, throwing it into the pond,” Ron continues under his breath, and his mouth twitches upward, betraying his true feelings. He sits back, wiping his hands on his jeans in an exaggerated motion as if brushing off the indignity of the situation. His gaze shifts to the basket in Hermione’s arms. It’s only half–full of the strawberries they need, and he lets out a dramatic sigh as he turns his attention back to the project at hand.
“You know,” Ron says, I think this would be much easier if we could use magic.” He pulls another couple of strawberries off the vine and tosses them into the woven basket Hermione has. “I don’t know why mum is making us do this without it.” Hermione shifts the basket to rest on her hip, the yellow sundress she wears bunching up at her side. She smiles and shakes her head, her hair falling into her eyes.
“Magic takes the fun out of it,” she replies, her voice light but teasing. “Besides, you could use the practice. Manual labor builds character, Ron.”
He lets out a snort, but tosses her a smile over his shoulder. “You sound like my mum,” he says.
Hermione laughs. “Well,” she says evenly, “your mum has a point. She’s got six sons. I’d imagine she knows a thing or two about building character.” Ron shakes his head, clicking his tongue, brushing dirt off his hands.
“Yeah, but she doesn’t make us pick strawberries in the blazing sun for fun. This is clearly punishment.” he holds up his bitten finger in emphasis.
“Punishment or what?” Hermione asks, her tone amused.
“No idea,” Ron deadpans, “but I must have done something.” Hermione rolls her eyes.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, shaking her head, but there’s warmth in her voice that she doesn’t bother suppressing. She leans forward and adds a handful of strawberries to the basket, brushing a strand of her dark brown curls out of her face.
“What’s taking so long out there?” Mrs. Weasley’s voice calls from the kitchen window, loud and familiar and exasperated. “I need those strawberries before dinner!”
“We had an incident with a gnome!” Hermione calls back, and she can’t stop the laugh that escapes from her lips. Ron scowls.
“ An incident with a gnome, ” Ron mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You make it sound like I declared war on the thing.” Hermione shrugs.
“You know you would if you could,” she says, lowering herself onto the ground beside him, and Ron snorts.
“Well, we’re kind of in the middle of one already, I don’t fancy starting another.”
Hermione falls silent at these words, and Ron winces. “Alright,” he says. “That was a bad joke.”
“It kind of was,” Hermione says softly, the reality of the world around them crashing down once more. Said reality, that constant worry and anxiety is why she treasures these small moments, the brief instances of peace that keep her going. She doesn’t like to interrupt those moments with the crushing circumstances around them.
“I just…” she begins, and Ron waits for her to continue. “Sometimes I forget, for a little while. And then I remember, and it feels like…” She trails off, searching for the right words. “Like the ground isn’t as steady as I thought.”
Ron looks at her, his expression unusually serious. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”
For a moment, they just stay there, kneeling on the cool earth beneath them, the unspoken weight of the war and horcruxes and everything else settling between them. It’s always there, lingering at the edges of Hermione’s thoughts, no matter how many times she tries to distract herself. She’s guessing that Ron feels the same, and Ron clears his throat and shifts the basket of strawberries in his hands.
“How’re you feeling about tomorrow?” he asks, and Hermione considers him.
“Fine,” she says. “Moody seems to think it’ll go well. I’m just…” she trails off, trying to tame the small knot of worry in her stomach.
“I think it’ll be alright,” Ron says, then he shrugs, a tentative look of confidence on his face. “I’m excited to see Harry again. It feels like ages since it’s been the three of us together.”
Hermione smiles faintly, her gaze drifting over the garden. “It does, doesn’t it? Even though it’s only been a couple of weeks.”
“Yeah, but it’s been… you know. A long couple of weeks.” Ron’s voice is softer now, the weight of everything they’ve endured tinting his words. Hermione nods, thinking back to what had happened in June at the end of the term, and she sets the basket on the ground between them. Her fingers brush the green leaves of the strawberry plants as she plucks another berry from the vine.
"It's... strange,” she begins quietly, “how… normal things can still feel, even with everything going on."
“Tell me about it,” Ron says a little darkly. “I still can’t believe that all this is happening around us,” he gestures around them with his hands, and Hermione takes his meaning. “I mean, we’re about to go on a possible lethal mission to get Harry tomorrow, and at the same time my brother is getting married in three weeks.” Hermione finds herself nodding, though her mind is far from the forced lightness of Ron’s tone.
A lethal mission .
The words echo in her mind, and the weight of them settles heavily in her chest as she thinks about tomorrow. About how they’re going to have to travel completely exposed across the night sky. It fills her with anxiety, and she turns to look at Ron, for something to do. She can see his forced casual demeanor, sees the tension in his shoulders, the subtle tightness around his eyes.
“It’ll be fine,” Hermione says softly, and Ron meets her eyes. As always, she’s taken aback by the clear, crystal blue they are, and her stomach flips.
Stop it, she tells herself, and quickly looks away, focusing on the basket in her hands. The familiar weight of the woven basket grounds her, and she attempts to push the unsettling flutter in her stomach aside, trying to bury it under layers of practicality. She can't afford to be distracted now. Not with everything going on, not when there's so much at stake. She grasps another strawberry. Besides, she thinks, after the fiasco that was The Lavender situation (as Hermione likes to call it), she doesn’t think they’re really cut out for each other. She loves him, she knows, very much so, but– well. It’s complicated.
Very complicated.
Hermione can’t help but feel a sting of shame and bitterness as she reflects on the mess that was the whole Lavender situation – how everything between her and Ron had been so tangled and confusing. The jealousy, the hurtful words hurled at one another as well as the ones they’d left unspoken. It was stupid, she thinks now, that the realization of her feelings came then, during that long, horrible fight. True, she had always known there was something between her and Ron, something deeper than friendship, but every time it seemed like they were about to move forward, something got in the way.
The memory of their fight last year still stings a little, though she tries not to dwell on it too much. She’s learned to push it to the back of her mind, especially now, when there are more pressing things to worry about. But it lingers, like a thread she can’t quite unravel. She does love Ron, she knows that. She lets out a sigh through her nose and picks another few strawberries from the vine, gently placing them in the basket. When she looks up, she sees Ron looking at her, and as if sensing the turmoil in her mind, tosses her a strawberry.
“Here, have one,” he says, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’ll cheer you up.”
Hermione catches it easily, the bright red fruit warm from the sun. She smiles softly, and not because she feels cheered up, though she does. It’s such a Ron thing to do—offering something simple, a quiet gesture of care when words feel too complicated. She bites into the strawberry, its sweetness filling her senses and grounding her in the moment. It tastes like summer. Fresh and cool, simple and fleeting. A reminder of days when the world seemed lighter, when the biggest worry of her life was finishing homework or being on time for dinner at her home. Not worrying about a war, not having to erase her parent’s memories, just. Living.
For a moment, Hermione allows herself to just be, savoring the fruit and the warmth of the sun on her skin. The weight of everything else—of the war, of Harry, of the unknown—seems a little farther away, just for a second, and she allows herself to savor the comfort of the act, of the familiarity of her best friend, and as she looks at him, she’s suddenly bursting to tell him. Bursting to tell him how much she loves him, how much she’s been holding back, how these little moments with him are the only things that keep her grounded. The way his laugh makes her feel like she can breathe again, the way he makes her want to live life to its fullest. The way his kindness seeps into everything he does, even when he’s at his most frustrated or sarcastic, even when he’d rather be doing anything else.
And she means to tell him. She really does, but before she can follow through, the voice of Mrs. Weasley echoes through the window, and they both turn.
“Alright, you two,” Mrs. Weasley calls, “That should be enough strawberries. Come inside and help me make this jam!”
Ron sighs dramatically, breaking the moment, and Hermione feels the unspoken words slip through her fingers, lost in the space between them. She stands up, brushing the dirt from her hands, the heavy feeling in her chest weighing her down.
“Guess we’d better go,” Ron says with a grin, trying to lighten the air. “Mum is very particular about jam making though, so be warned.” Hermione only nods and smiles, her stomach a mess of emotions, all tangled up and nowhere to go.
“Yeah,” she replies quietly, giving him a tight smile. “Let’s go.”
—
They have dinner in the garden.
She closes her eyes and soaks up the sun on her face, relishing the warm summer evening breeze. The garden is alive with its usual warmth. The breeze carries the scent of earth and grass, mixed with the lingering sweetness of strawberries, both from the pie Mrs. Weasley made, and from the patch just a few feet away. Fireflies begin to flicker in the air, little glimmers of light against the dimming sky, and the sound of laughter and clinking plates fills the space.
The meal has long since ended, but no one is in a hurry to leave. Everyone is lazing about outside, either sitting on the slightly overgrown grass, the porch swing, or at the long table. Conversation drifts lazily between them, and the warmth of the lanterns sways with the evening breeze, casting flickering shadows over faces that are full and content. Hermione is opting to sit on the grass beside Ron and Ginny, and she leans back on her hands, stretching her legs out in the cool grass. Her yellow sundress spreads around her in a wide fan. The warmth of dinner settles in her stomach, and the air hums with the easy comfort of conversation around her. The fireflies flicker a few feet off the ground, and for a brief, blissful moment, she allows herself to pretend that everything is normal. That the world isn’t teetering on the edge of chaos. That tomorrow isn’t looming over her like a storm cloud.
But the moment doesn’t last. It never does.
She exhales, glancing toward the house, and suddenly she needs to be gone. Needs to be alone, to deal with the anxiety and regret that’s coursing through her. Hermione takes a deep breath, tries to steady herself, and suddenly remembers her book. She left it upstairs in Ginny’s room earlier, and the thought of retrieving it now feels like a welcome excuse to escape for a little while. Not because she isn’t enjoying herself, but because—well, there’s the weight on her chest that she can’t quite shake, something about sitting here totally still that’s making her thoughts spiral in ways she’s not ready to confront.
“I think I’m going to head inside for a bit,” she says, pushing herself up and brushing bits of grass from her dress.
Ron, who’s been sitting beside her for the past few minutes, glances up at her, his brows furrowing slightly. “You alright?”
Hermione nods quickly, offering him a small smile. “Yeah, I just– I left my book in Ginny’s room earlier. I want to grab it before I forget.”
Ron snorts, shaking his head, though his expression is lighthearted. “Only you would be thinking about books after dinner.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, she gives him a pointed look. “And yet, I’m the one who’s always right when it comes to useful spells and information.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ron grumbles, but there’s a fondness in his voice. “Go rescue your book, then. We’ll try to survive out here without you.”
Hermione smiles, and she crosses the garden to the back door. The Burrow is a tad warmer than outside, and it wraps around her as she steps inside. The kitchen is full of its usual clutter, but it feels homey and full of life. The scent of the jam they started earlier in the day and various spices still cling to the air. The chatter of the family outside fades slightly, replaced by the familiar creaks of the wooden floors as she makes her way toward the stairs. As she climbs, the house feels quieter, and she’s able to find it easier to breathe now.
When she gets to the room, she digs around her bag, fingers closing around her copy of Pride and Prejudice. It’s the only keepsake sort of item she took from her childhood home when she’d left a few weeks ago. It fills her with a sense of nostalgia and loss, and she sits on the extra bed in Ginny’s room, her fingers tracing the worn edges of the book her mother had read to her when she was ten. The book has always been a comfort, a reminder of home she’d brought with her to school. It reminded her—and still does—of simpler times. Lazy afternoons curled up in the armchair by the window, with her parents reading in the next room. She swallows the sudden lump in her throat.
Home.
She can still see it perfectly in her mind. The white walls, the shelves lined with books, the faint smell of her mother’s favorite lavender candle. It will be there, of course. Untouched and unchanged. But her parents don’t live there anymore, obviously. They don’t even know they have a daughter. The thought presses down on her, a weight in her chest that she hasn’t fully let herself feel. She’d done it to protect them. It had been the right thing to do. She thinks so, anyway. She still doesn’t know if she can find them, again, when the war is over and done with. A spike of guilt hits her, and she feels a lump rise in her throat.
She stands abruptly, and only just then realizes she’s been there long enough that the sun has nearly disappeared below the horizon. Quickly, she hurries out of the room, book in hand, and as she’s descending the stairs, hears the telltale sign of someone coming. Footsteps echo closer to her, and a few seconds later, Ron is standing before her.
“What’re you doing up here?” Hermione asks, and Ron looks at her carefully.
“Just making sure that you’re alright.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Ron lets out something akin to a disbelieving snort, and raises an eyebrow. Hermione regrets the question immediately. Ron knows her too well to believe that she’s fine, and she can see it in the way he’s looking at her—searching, patient, waiting for her to be honest with him. “Well,” he says slowly, crossing his arms, “for starters, you’ve been up here for ages, and you look pretty put out.”
Hermione leans back against the wall, holding her book to her chest. She has to blink several times, because The sun’s golden light is shining through the window, a sliver spilling out onto the stairs and into Hermione’s eyes.
“Yeah?” she asks a little defensively, and Ron takes a step closer to her, a halo of sunlight surrounding him.
“Yeah,” he replies calmly. Hermione rolls her eyes.
“I’m just tired is all,” she says, shaking her head.
“Really.”
"Really,” Hermione says, crossing her arms over her book and leaning back against the wall. “I’m fine.”
Ron raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You’re clutching that book like it’s a shield, Hermione.” he shrugs. “Maybe it is a shield though, I wouldn’t put it past you to charm a book for protection.”
She scowls at him, hugging the book closer to her chest. “It’s not a shield, Ron. It’s just… comforting.”
“Comforting,” Ron repeats, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “You mean, more comforting than my brilliant company in the garden?” He’s trying to cheer her up, Hermione can tell, and she appreciates it far more than she can say. She finds that it’s working. Just a little, and she feels the corner of her mouth lift.
“Oh, yes,” Hermione replies airily, arching an eyebrow at him. “Far more comforting than you whining about the blazing sun or starting a war with a gnome.”
“Oh please,” Ron says, narrowing his eyes. “That gnome deserved it and you know it.”
Hermione huffs out a small laugh despite herself, and Ron’s expression softens slightly, the teasing glint in his eyes fading into something quieter, something more thoughtful.
“I don’t want to stress you out,” he says, a little quieter, “But I really do want to make sure. Are you actually alright?” he asks again, his voice gentler now.
Hermione hesitates, her smile faltering. She glances down at the book in her hands, tracing the edges of the worn cover with her thumb. She lets out a soft sigh and tilts her head back against the rough wood at her back. “I’m just… thinking,” she says finally.
Ron raises his eyebrows.
Okay, Hermione thinks, not descriptive enough.
“About tomorrow?” Ron encourages, an exasperated sigh escapes her lips. Because here’s the thing. She isn’t horribly terrified about tomorrow. She’s nervous, sure, but it’s not as if she can’t stop thinking about it. It’s more like she’s worried about what comes… after.
After it’s over. After Harry turns seventeen and after the wedding, when she, Ron, and Harry begin their hunt for the Horcruxes. Ron’s eyes are on her, steady and patient, waiting for her to say something, and she knows he won’t let this go until she gives him a real answer. So, she shrugs.
“It’s not tomorrow, exactly,” she says carefully, tilting her head to look at him. “I mean, I’m nervous about it, of course, but it’s not… it’s not the worst of it.”
“And what is?” Ron asks.
Hermione looks into his blue eyes and swallows thickly. “It just feels,” she begins, “like everything’s moving too fast, and I can’t keep up. Like if I stop for even a second, it’ll all catch up to me, and I won’t be able to handle it.” She’s not sure where the words have come from, but she knows they’re true. This deep fear that she won’t be able to make it, that she’ll fall behind, that she won’t be able to—well, handle it.
It’s the reason she works so hard. The reason that she does double the effort, to show she’s just as capable—if not more capable, than any other pureblood.
(It doesn’t matter what she does now, though, unless they can stop Voldemort.)
Ron doesn’t respond right away, but she can feel his eyes on her, warm and steady. When she finally looks up, he takes a step closer, the light from the window catching the copper strands in his hair.
“You’ve handled everything so far,” he says softly. “You’re the strongest person I know, Hermione. You always figure it out.”
His words send a wave of warmth through her chest, and she looks away, embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t always feel strong,” she admits. “Most of the time, I feel like I’m barely holding it together.”
“Yeah, well,” Ron says, his voice lighter now, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re better at holding it together than I am. So that’s saying something.”
Hermione rolls her eyes, but she can’t help the small smile that creeps onto her face. “Not exactly a high bar, is it?” she teases.
“You know what? I’m trying to compliment you here! I think that deserves a little gratitude.” he says, but there isn’t any actual offense in his voice. Hermione laughs softly, and the sound seems to linger in the air between them, light and fragile.
“Thank you,” she relents. Ron grins at her, and for a moment, the tension eases, and it almost feels like things are normal again. Like they’re back at school, or spending time together the previous summer. Even during their sixth year, during the months they were on actual good terms.
Ron steps closer, then, and the air shifts. Just slightly, but an odd sort of tension seems to fill the space between them.
“I mean it, though,” he says, his voice quieter now. “You’re incredible, Hermione. You always have been.”
Her breath catches, and she feels the weight of his words settling over her, warm and steady. She looks up at him, and the sunlight streaming through the window catches the seriousness in his expression, the softness in his eyes.
“Ron,” she starts, but she doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Doesn’t know how to put into words everything she’s been feeling, everything she’s been holding back.
She looks at him, really looks at him, and all the feelings she’s been holding inside seem to rise to the surface. Ron’s gaze doesn’t waver, his blue eyes holding hers like he’s waiting for something. He’s so close now that she can see every freckle on his face, the faint smudge of dirt on his jaw from working in the garden. The sunlight catches in his hair, giving him a golden glow that makes him a little difficult to look at.
She opens her mouth to say something, anything , but the words catch in her throat, and she feels it again. That thing she’d felt in the garden earlier that day. The sense of need, of love that she doesn’t think she can hold back anymore. There’s too much she wants to say, too much she doesn’t know how to put into words. How much he means to her. How much he’s always meant to her.
Ron tilts his head, an unreadable expression on his face. “You’re staring,” he says quietly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His voice is soft, teasing, but there’s an edge of vulnerability in it, one that Hermione knows she mirrors as she responds.
“So are you.”
Ron’s smile widens just slightly, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in a little closer, and Hermione feels her pulse quicken.
She doesn’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s both of them, like the moment is pulling them together in a way that neither of them can resist. But in an instant, The space between them disappears before she can fully process it. One moment, she’s rooted in place on the stairs, just a few steps above him, breath uneven and heart racing. The next, his lips are on hers and the world around them fades into nothing.
The fact that she responds to him so quickly is a testament, she supposes, to how much she’s been waiting for this to happen. It feels natural, so right, like something inevitable, and she lets herself lean into it, into him. He’s steady where she feels like she might falter, his touch firm yet careful as his hands settle on her waist.
Ron steps up so he’s only a step beneath her now, lips never leaving hers, and one hand moves to cup her face gently. Warmth spreads from where is fingers touch her skin, and when finds herself stepping backward, letting him guide her so her back meets the wall. The hand that isn’t holding her book clutches at the fabric of Ron’s shirt, seeking a semblance of balance as her knees threaten to give out beneath her. She braces herself against the wall, her book slipping out of her hand and onto the stairs, falling a few feet away from them.
Her newly freed hand slips to the rough wooden wall behind her for support. He holds her there, close and steady, the weight of his body anchoring her, and she lets out a soft sigh into his lips. His touch is deliberate, unhurried, as if he’s savoring the feel of her, every movement measured and sure. The warmth of the moment seems to spread through her, grounding her even as her heart races faster.
The stairwell feels smaller now, as though the world has shrunk to just the two of them. She doesn’t think about the book lying forgotten on the stairs or how precarious their footing might be. All she knows is the warmth of his hand on her skin, the way he holds her with a steady certainty, and the feel of his lips on hers.
Her free hand drifts up from the wall, slipping around his neck as she leans into him further, her body molding against his in a way that feels like it was meant to happen. Every movement feels natural, like something they’ve done a thousand times before in another life, though she knows this is the first.
When they finally pull apart, Hermione feels as though all the air in her lungs has been stolen from her. Her chest rises and falls quickly, her heart pounding so loudly she feels that he must be able to hear it. She keeps her hand on the back of his neck, keeping herself steady as if she might float away otherwise. His forehead rests against hers, his breath warm and uneven against her skin.
They don’t move, not for what must be something like years. She doesn’t want to be apart from him, she realizes then, not now, not ever, and it’s a little frightening, she decides. A little bit terrifying to feel this much for someone, to not want to part from them.
Neither of them speak for several seconds. Either too shocked or too overwhelmed to form a single word, and the silence between them is thick, charged with everything they’ve left unsaid. Hermione doesn’t dare break it. She watches him through half-lidded eyes, sees the way his lashes cast faint shadows against his freckled skin, the way his lips are slightly parted.
And then, softly, Ron shifts.
His thumb brushes against her hip one more time, a small, unconscious motion that makes her eyes flutter shut. He doesn’t pull away completely, still cradling her head with one hand, the other resting on her hip. Several more moments pass in silence, and then Ron speaks, leading Hermione to open her eyes.
“We’ll be okay, Mione,” he says, using the old nickname he’d given her and used only a few times. “We’ll be okay. I promise.”
And in that moment, with the golden light spilling in through the window and his hand warm and steady on her hip, Hermione thinks she might just believe him.