Getting On With It

GETTING ON WITH IT

Ron couldn't sleep. He lay on the floor of his old bedroom at the Burrow and stared at the ceiling. Even in the darkness, the violent orange of the Chudley Cannons posters plastered to the walls gave off a dull glow.

It'd been three weeks since the final battle--three weeks of funerals and picking up the pieces and trying to move on. But as Ron sighed and glanced to either side, he realized that was going to be a bit harder than simply putting a smile on his face and getting on with it. That, he thought with a rueful smirk, was pretty obvious, given his position on the floor. Harry lay on one side and Hermione on the other, although he'd insisted she take the bed. (My bed, he couldn't help but think, blimey.)

After months on their own, with no one but each other for company, depending on each other to survive, the three of them weren't quite prepared for life apart. They hadn't discussed it or even acknowledged it, but they'd stuck together in the three weeks since that final battle. Even when that meant sleeping in the same room, with Ron and Harry kipped on the floor. His mum hadn't even said anything about the fact that a girl--okay, Hermione, but still--was occupying his childhood bed every night. Then again, Ron couldn't expect her to notice things like that, not since...

Ron shook his head to clear the image of his dead brother from his mind. He pulled a long arm from under the sheet and crooked it under his neck, allowing himself a glance at his best friend.

Merlin, she looked peaceful. He wished he could finally fall to sleep like that. She was curled on her side, her face serene and one hand tucked up under her cheek. Ron could see her hair spread out in a fan behind her--he had noticed in the months they'd been on the run that she couldn't sleep with her hair on her neck--and he had to clench his fist to stop himself from reaching up and running his fingers through it.

He let his eyes wander down to the silhouette of her narrow curves under the light blanket. Under the blanket of my bed, he couldn't help but think again. He felt something stir and tighten deep within him at the thought. He would never admit it to a soul, but he'd pictured Hermione sleeping in his bed quite a few times already. With him in it, too. He wasn't entirely sure when the dreams and musings had started, but he knew over the years they had moved from seriously disconcerting--a word Hermione had taught him--to extremely welcome.

And yet.

He looked back at the wall. Three weeks ago, Hermione had flown at him, pressed her lips against his with an urgency that stole his breath. But since then, nothing. They had held hands, comforted each other through the endless funerals, but there was something holding them back from more. Ron had pictured pulling her close and kissing her a thousand different times since then, but it'd never happened. He slid his eyes to Harry, sleeping not three feet away. That probably had something to do with it.

But did it? Ron had dealt with these insecurities before. He couldn't help but think that Hermione regretted it. That she'd kissed him as a weird release of the fear, pain and uncertainty of that final battle. He glanced back at her and nearly yelped.

Hermione was awake, and she was staring right at him.

"Can't sleep?"

Ron shook his head. "Sorry if I woke you."

Hermione brushed a few stray hairs out of her eyes and gave Ron a small smile. She tucked her hand back under her cheek, but let her other arm snake out from under the blanket, let it fall over the side of the bed and dangle close to Ron's arm.

"Is it because of tomorrow, or...?"

Ron could feel the heat from her fingers on the sensitive underside of his arm. He inched a tiny bit closer so that the pads of her fingertips brushed lightly against his skin. She didn't pull away.

"Yeah, tomorrow," Ron nodded, his voice a whispered rumble. "It's ... I dunno ... daunting."

"It won't be that bad," Hermione promised, "and it'll be better than just letting The Daily Prophet keep going with their wild stories."

Ron groaned just thinking about it. "But why do they need photos? I mean, couldn't they just use Harry?"

Hermione shrugged. "We're the trio, Ron. We probably need to get used to that."

* * *

Harry was pacing. Ginny kept trying to persuade him to sit down by her and relax, but he wouldn't. Ron knew the feeling. Xenophilius Lovegood was set to arrive in less than ten minutes for their big interview with The Quibbler, and Ron felt sick.

Only Hermione seemed poised. Ron let his head fall into his hands and jiggled his leg under the table. Why had they agreed to this stupid interview? Why in the name of Merlin had they agreed to photos? He jiggled his leg harder.

"Ron," Hermione snapped. She pressed her hand against the top of Ron's thigh under the table to stop him from moving. It made his stomach flop about like a dying fish and his neck heat up to what he imagined was a lovely shade of crimson. Bloody perfect.

Hermione leaned in closer. "It'll be easy, nothing like that horrible Skeeter woman. And then The Prophet will have to stop with all their ridiculous stories. Did you see that interview Cormac gave them? Saying we had some grand love affair?"

Ron tried not to squeak. Yes, he'd read it. Cormac Bloody McLaggen had gone into loads of detail about his supposed relationship with the great Hermione Granger. Her likes and dislikes, her secret desires. Ron balled his hands into fists under the table, but it only made Hermione move her hand from his thigh to his forearm.

"This'll be good," she said softly, smiling.

Ron could only lift one eyebrow in response. He doubted very much 'good' would be the word to describe it. But she was right--she was Hermione, of course she was right--they had to do something to stem the increasingly outlandish stories The Prophet was churning out every day. Just yesterday, it had run a front-page exposé of the Weasley family, complete with an in-depth profile of each member and photos. Embarrassingly, the only photo they seemed to have been able to dig up of Ron was him at age 12 while visiting Bill in Egypt.

The piece had asserted that Ron would join Harry in the Auror program, but that wasn't entirely true. He had been asked to join the Aurors, but he wasn't exactly sure if that's what he wanted. People kept asking him what he wanted to do, and he just didn't know. It felt like he'd spent years with one goal in mind--help Harry stop Voldemort--and now everything spread out before him in a giant blank landscape.

Ron really didn't see how agreeing to talk to The Quibbler would be much different, but Hermione had pressed the issue, and Harry had finally relented, so who was he to hold out?

Ron leaned back in his chair and stared at the clock.

* * *

"So, Mr. Weasley," Lovegood said, his long fingers steepled in front of him. "Many are calling Miss Granger the brains of the trio. How would you describe her?"

"Errr," Ron stammered.

Lovegood had shown up, with Luna, a photographer and one massive camera in tow, exactly on time. They'd done the photographs first--the stupid bloody awful photos--as Lovegood had peppered them with strange questions like their favorite vintage of Cauldron Cake and their preference for Portkeys or Floo Powder. But now, they were all seated at the wooden table in the Weasley kitchen, the rest of the large family most likely crowded around the corner to hear the interview.

What did he ask again? Ron glanced at Hermione. She had ducked her head, concentrating on her hands fretting in her lap. Oh, right. Hermione. He stared at her a moment longer, at her hair tucked behind her ears and the light freckles across her nose. How would he describe her?

"Brilliant," Ron said, turning back to Lovegood. "Courageous, selfless, determined." He paused, but he was really getting a head of steam going. Honestly, what an easy question. "And, y'know, she really cares about doing right by others. In our fourth year, she started this absolutely barmy organization called Spew--"

"S.P.E.W., Ron," Hermione said in exasperation, shaking her head but smiling, "not Spew."

"Right, well she was on about house elf rights, and it was something I'd never thought about, y'know. But now, because of Hermione... She's the cleverest witch of our generation, obviously. That's what everyone keeps saying. But she's so much more than that. She's per--"

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley, that's fine. And Harry? How would you describe Harry, Miss Granger?"

Ron frowned at Lovegood. He wasn't through. He glanced at Hermione. She had opened her mouth just slightly, her lips parted as she thought out her response. Ron pictured kissing her, just grabbing her and pulling her to him. But then the moment passed and the interview continued. And in the end, Lovegood didn't even ask what Hermione thought of him. He wondered what her response would have been.

* * *

The Lovegoods stayed for dinner, and there had even been some laughter at the table. Almost like Fred was still there.

Ron excused himself early, oddly not hungry, and slipped out the back door toward the garden. He couldn't stop thinking about it, about what Hermione would answer if she were asked her thoughts on him.

He shoved a gnome out of the way and leaned against the crumbling stone walls of the garden, staring at the setting sun.

Since he was 13, it seemed he was on some sort of train, and that train was inevitably heading toward Hermione. He hadn't wanted to admit it at first, of course, and then he spent a good many years trying to hide it. But he couldn't anymore. And he suspected everyone knew it.

But what if she didn't feel the same way? What if that kiss had been a fluke, something in their long friendship they would never discuss again? It felt strange to think that in the end he wouldn't end up with Hermione Granger. It hollowed something inside of him.

"In the seven years I've known you, Ron Weasley, this is the first time you haven't had seconds."

Ron jumped and banged his elbow against the stone wall at Hermione's voice, cursing spectacularly as he whipped around. Hermione raised one eyebrow, but smiled and pulled a hand up to shade her eyes against the setting sun. She stopped in front of him and dropped her hand, twisting it into the cotton of her t-shirt. Ron couldn't help but notice a flush bloom across her cheeks and frowned, wondering what had her flustered.

Then Hermione reached out. Ron stared at her fingertips, at the way the sun made them almost glow, as she pulled his hand into her own and entwined their fingers. Without a word, she led him along the path out of the garden and into the meadow beyond.

They walked in silence, Hermione keeping one hand firmly held in Ron's as she danced the other through the long grasses. "I love the Burrow," she whispered, not taking her eyes off the horizon. "I could never leave here again and be happy."

Ron squeezed her hand and turned, walking backward to face her. "So don't." It had seemed such a simple thing to say, but the meaning seeped into him and he felt his face flush in hot embarrassment. But Hermione, if she noticed, didn't say anything; instead, she just smiled again.

Ron fell back into step as they approached the line of trees and easily slipped his hand back around hers.

"Thank you for what you said about me to Xenophilius," Hermione said. She ran her hand down the bark of a tree and turned to him. "I've never had someone say such nice things."

Ron frowned. "But you know we're all thinking them, don't you?"

Hermione shrugged. "Probably, but it's nice to hear them ... from you." She paused, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth in a way that made Ron feel suddenly fizzy. "I ... he never asked me what I thought of you."

Ron leaned against a tree and tried to pretend he didn't particularly care. It didn't work. He ducked his head sheepishly and muttered. "What ... what do you think of me, Hermione?"

Ron stared at the forest floor, but he heard leaves and twigs crackle as Hermione moved to stand directly in front of him. Her slender legs lined up against his taller ones. His heart pounded somewhere in the vicinity of his throat and he found he couldn't quite lift his head to meet her gaze.

"I think you're incredibly brave and loyal. I think you have a big heart, and I think you're brilliant even when you pretend you're not."

Ron clamped his lips together to stop from grinning like a fool. He kept his eyes down, afraid Hermione would see how wet they'd suddenly become. She had paused and stepped a tiny step closer.

"You always know exactly what to say to make me angry, and exactly what to say to make me laugh. I think you have found your place in this world--you as Ron Weasley, not as someone's brother or son or best friend. And I ... I--"

Hermione faltered then, her voice hitching. Ron looked up to see her eyes bright with tears. She smiled guiltily and looked away, wiping at them.

She took a shuddering breath and looked back at him. "I can't imagine not seeing you every day. I can't imagine what my life would be like without you."

And that was it. Something deep inside Ron that had been nervous and uncertain for years unfurled and spread throughout his entire body, making him feel tingly and light and scared to death all at the same time. He was in love with his best friend, and he wasn't going to pretend he wasn't.

Ron closed the distance between them and cupped Hermione's face. He dipped his head to meet her, accidentally bumping her nose as he did. It happened so quickly she yelped a tiny bit, but he cut her off with his mouth. She responded to his kiss immediately, parting her lips to let him explore her and wrapping her hands around his neck to pull him closer.

The force of the kiss had pushed Hermione up against a tree, and Ron pressed into her, deepening their kiss. He didn't know how long they stayed like that, but when they finally broke apart, he smiled and she beamed back at him.

She licked her lips--red and a little swollen now--and stood on tip-toe, her hands on Ron's shoulders. The kiss was gentle now, slower, and Ron ran one hand through her forever-bushy hair, letting the strands weave through his fingers like he'd pictured doing a thousand times.

The sun had already set as they walked back slowly to the Burrow, the lights within glowing. They hadn't really talked since Ron had first kissed her, but after all these years, he didn't really feel like he had to say something for Hermione to know how he felt.

The sky was dark blue, and the meadow spread out in front of them as they walked, hand in hand. Ron wasn't entirely sure what his future would hold, but he knew he would share it with Hermione.

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