Unspoken

A/N: Another going-for-profound fic that I hope turned out all right. This is kind of in response to all of the fics I've been reading lately in which Ron and Hermione "declare their undying love" and start madly snogging. I don't see their relationship happening that way... they're more reserved about things that are important. Anyways, I could get into a big long discussion, but that's neither here nor there. Enjoy, I hope!

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Unspoken

It wasn't what they said that mattered.

It wasn't that they talked to him about it, or acted that much differently, or started spending more time away from him. On the contrary, the three seemed to spend more time together. But it was there, nonetheless.

It wasn't what they said; it was the white-knuckled grip of his hand in hers, fingers laced together, as they walked away from the Burrow for the last time. It was how she hugged them both when they came back after a nerve-wracking night tracking Death Eaters while she stayed in a cave and guarded their treasure. Both embraces were lingering and overflowing with emotion, but she embraced Ron with a different sort of linger and different sort of emotion than she did Harry--more intense, more relieved. It didn't mean she loved Harry any less, but she loved him differently. And somehow, it didn't hurt Harry. Because, after all of this was over, he felt as if he owed them at least each other.

It showed when Ron bit back an angry retort, or took a little less at mealtimes and pretended to be full so she would eat without worrying about him. When it was time to sleep, he waited until she dozed off before he climbed under his own blanket. In the morning, she looked first to his bed, then to Harry's, to make sure they were all there and all right.

There was never any confession of undying love, so far as Harry knew; if he didn't know them so well, he probably would not have even noticed it. It was familiarity taken to a different level. It was fewer pointless arguments, although that could be from pressure and fear as easily as anything else.

Once, only once, did he see any obvious sign of affection. Tired of worrying out loud, he had pretended to fall asleep; through a barely opened eye, he saw her wilt into his arms and just rest, head on his shoulder, not saying anything. When she finally fell asleep, he kissed her forehead gently and tucked her into her blankets before turning to his space. It was chaste and quiet and everything that had not been with Lavender; but somehow, its absence made it more real. It was not confessions made in moonlight, or proclamations made from rooftops, but quiet touches when life overwhelmed, and wrapping a sleeping girl in her blanket. It was action speaking louder than words.

Before the end, before the final battle, he gave them each other. There was nothing he could give them otherwise; not a soft bed to sleep on, not a hot meal, not freedom from fear, not doubtless victory. He said he was going for a walk to think about things. Hermione watched him with worried eyes, and Ron looked as if he would stop him, but neither did. They trusted him to be careful, but that didn't keep them from caring. He knew that they would make the most of time together, doing whatever it was they needed to do--to talk, or to touch, or to simply be together. They needed this as much as flowers need rain; but, like flowers, they could do without for a time. If he had asked, they would have given him the world. They would have given him every second of their existence, because that was the love the three shared together. But this time apart was different, and Harry knew that. His walk was to go a few feet from the cave and to sit in the rain and to know that he had given them the best and only thing he could.

He could not imagine them saying "I love you" to one another; the three of them loved each other, and they loved their families, and the Order; they had said those words a hundred times in these dark days of uncertainty. Ron and Hermione were something bigger than four letters: they were white-knuckled death-grips, they were controlling their own tempers, they were a chaste kiss on the forehead and reassurances that everything would be all right. No, Harry decided. To suddenly say this "I love you" would mean there had been a time when they hadn't--and that would be a lie. They had said this "I love you" a hundred different ways: in bickering; in aiming canaries at Ron's head; in grudgingly admiring Hermione's hard work; in asking for homework help; in a dozen dozen ways that didn't seem so at the time, but were really just two people testing each other's bounds and finding they held true.

The rain slowed. Harry stood and went back to the cave. His friends pulled him down between them and worried over the state of his wet clothes. There were no glances of discontent and trysts cut short, no "we'll have to wait until later" regret in posture or voice. They were his friends, and they loved him. It would be undermining their character to exclude him. If they loved each other differently--well, that was their choice. He knew that their very personalities were built of trust and loyalty; they would have both kinds of love, or none at all. They could not betray him and be true to one another; likewise, he could not betray them and still wish to live. Yes, there were two kinds of love between the three of them. But the first, for now, was more important. Later, there would be a time and place for the two-person kind of love. And as they sat together, huddled around a magical fire, that understanding went unspoken.

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A/N: I love reviews--good, bad, or ugly. :)