Vigil

After Madam Pomfrey had left for the night, Ron slipped out of bed and sat by Hermione's side, silently urging her to wake. She would come around soon enough, Pomfrey had said, and he knew he should believe it -- after all, everyone always said that she hadn't failed yet. Still, as he gazed down at Hermione's motionless body, he couldn't bring himself to relax; her breathing sounded rough and suspiciously regular, and her face looked shadowed and eerily calm.

The Death Eater's curse had done Hermione plenty of damage, but it was the scar that bothered him the most. It began just below her collarbone and grew deeper and wider until it disappeared beneath the neckline of her plain cotton nightdress. From there, Pomfrey had told him, it ran all the way across...well, across her chest, ending just above her waist on the other side of her body. He had asked if the scar would fade over time; Pomfrey had gently told him that she could not be certain.

She might be scarred forever. Well, Ron thought, he already had one friend with a permanent scar; he could handle another. Ron had always felt that Harry had it rough, what with the brand on his forehead that shouted to the world that he was the Boy who Lived. Hermione wouldn't have that problem -- her scar would be hidden under the jumpers and collared shirts she usually wore -- but deep down, it seemed much worse. Dolohov had left his mark in a very private place, a place that was almost sacred.

Ron wasn't happy about the idea of fighting women at all (though he supposed there was an exception for people like Bellatrix Lestrange), but if you did, you didn't hit her there. You weren't supposed to touch or look at or even bloody think about those places without the girl's permission, and Hermione damn well hadn't given it to anybody (except maybe Viktor, he thought with a flash of despair). Not that Death Eaters cared about that sort of thing. Dolohov had violated her, Ron thought bitterly, and he'd probably laughed as he did it. If she hadn't been clever enough to hit Dolohov with a silencing charm, she'd be dead. Dead, like Sirius Black, who seemed so strong and powerful, and then, all of a sudden, was just plain gone.

It was just so bloody wrong, he thought. He reached out to take her hand as sadness and rage churned inside him. What sort of heartless bastard would want to destroy someone like Hermione? She was...well, special. Ron reckoned there wasn't anyone like her anywhere. She was the cleverest person he'd ever met, for one, but she had something more. She wasn't like Parvati or Lavender, who were always giggling and carrying on and prattling about makeup and boys and how they loved their stupid Divination classes. It was something about the way she held her head high and always did what was right without giving in to anybody.

It was dignity, he realized. Hermione was dignified. And the Death Eaters would've destroyed all of that in a second. They were -- they were -- didn't have a word for what they were.

He smiled to himself. Hermione would know the right word to use.

For a moment, he watched her in silence. Then a familiar thought drifted into his mind: she's beautiful. At first he tried to push the thought out of his mind, as he usually did, but then he remembered that she was asleep anyway and couldn't guess what was going on in his head.

So he let himself think it, feeling warmth flow through his body. You're beautiful. He looked down at her hand, clasped in his own, and smiled. Her skin was magnificent, smooth and light brown. Then there was that incredible hair, endless piles of it, as wild and as complicated and as absolutely gorgeous as Hermione herself. He reached out and took a lock of it in his hand, letting it run through his fingers. He marveled at the softness of all its twisted curls, and wished he could dive in and explore it forever. So damned beautiful.

Most of all, though, it was something about her eyes. They were closed now, but inside his memory, he could see them vividly, rich and brown and endlessly deep. He remembered how she looked when she was angry or happy or worried or determined, how her eyes were always so full of whatever she was feeling. And then, his heart leaping, he remembered a look she'd given him only a few times in his life. He'd seen it when he'd cursed Malfoy and yelled at Snape; and, this past year, he'd seen it when he tore up Percy's letter. It was... he wasn't sure what it was, but he knew he wanted that look more than anything else in the world. He looked at her closed eyes, once more willing them to open. So beautiful.

Everyone thought he'd been so lucky to go to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil, who was supposed to be one of the best-looking girls in his year, but when he looked at her at the ball, he couldn't make himself feel a damn thing for her. But Hermione...when that ugly git Krum put his hands on her, Ron felt as though someone had sliced him open and filled him with bubotuber pus. And then it got worse. She had reached out and smiled and touched the filthy bastard, as though she actually wanted to. It wasn't bloody fair, Viktor wasn't even from Hogwarts and he was four years older, and he didn't know her well enough to appreciate how wonderful she was. Viktor didn't deserve her.

Of course, Ron thought with a pang, he wasn't sure if he really deserved her either. He'd been a bit of a prat, he realized. There was the whole mess with Fleur. He felt his face growing hot as he remembered how he'd made a fool of himself, and how angry Hermione had looked. Though it was no different, really, from the way she'd mooned over that dolt Lockhart--except that veela had magical romantic powers and Lockhart didn't. He smirked. Reckon I'll have to point that out to her when she wakes up.

And then there was the whole Yule Ball mess. He hadn't asked her in time, and she thought he saw her as a last resort. But it wasn't that -- hell, he'd been too much of a bloody coward to ask anyone to the Yule Ball, let alone someone like Hermione. I wanted to ask her. I still want to ask her. Not to the Yule Ball, but I want to ask her out. I can't bloody stand it if anyone else puts his hands on her. If she says yes, it'd be the greatest thing ever, even better than making Keeper. But if she says no... I reckon I'd die.

But still, in spite of everything, she'd kissed him. It was just on the cheek, but it was still a kiss, and she didn't do that to just anybody. He wasn't certain why she'd done it, except that she could be pretty emotional at times. But she'd done it, and it had been -- it had been right nice, Ron thought. No, don't lie. It was bloody marvelous. He'd relived the kiss after every save in the Ravenclaw match, during every tough question on his OWLs, and throughout the ride to the Ministry. The memory never weakened, and he never tired of it, but he did start wanting more. Into his mind drifted a faint image of wild brown hair, and the soft whisper of an indrawn breath. He forced it down before it grew any clearer. It's not right to think about her like that. Not until she's yours. If she ever is.

She was so damn brave, to just up and kiss him like that in the middle of the Great Hall. I could never do that, he thought, feeling his ears turn red. I'd mess it up by tripping over my own feet or missing her mouth or something. And that'd be it for stupid old Ron. I couldn't do it like that.

He gazed down at her motionless face. But I could do it now.

He froze, wondering if it was right. She's asleep, he thought. But she's my friend, and she's sick, and I'm worried about her. People kiss each other like that and it's not wrong. And anyway, I owe her a kiss. He paused, feeling his heart beat faster. I reckon it's okay. His eyes traced her face (that beautiful face) and tried to pick a good spot.

Not on the lips, said a quiet voice inside of him. Not when she's like this. You wait until she's awake for that, so you can both enjoy it together. If she'd enjoy it at all, that is.

On the cheek, then. Just like she did to me. He took a deep breath and let go of her hand, then reached out and brushed a few stray curls off her cheek. As he leaned in close, he paused for a moment and gazed at the lines of her face. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her hair, a faint flowery perfume mixed with the smoke and dust of the Ministry. Then he closed the last few inches and touched his lips to her cheek.

Fiery tingles enveloped his body as he struggled to draw breath. She was warm and smooth and incredibly soft, softer than anything he'd ever felt in his life. He had only intended to kiss her for a second, but now he was locked in place, unable to move. For one wild moment, he felt as though he was pouring energy into her body, that if he just held the kiss, he could heal her, wake her from her slumber, and he didn't care if it cost him his life, because it was Hermione, and she was worth more than anything.

Finally, he made himself pull away, wondering at the aching sense of loss that filled him as he straightened up. He wanted to kiss her again, and started to bend down, but then stopped himself. It wouldn't be right, not until she woke up.

He could still feel his body tingling. Blimey... is this what she felt like when she kissed me? He wished she'd just outright tell him how she felt, but he remembered what she'd told Harry: girls don't often say things like that.

Well, then. She'd had the courage to yell at him for how he'd treated her at the Yule Ball -- and she'd had the courage to kiss him. It was his turn. Once she'd awakened, once she'd learned what had happened, once things had settled down a bit, he'd sit her down and tell her, because he couldn't wait any longer, not when he might lose her at any moment.

He stood up, looked down at her once more, and took her hand. "Hey," he whispered. "You'd better wake up soon.

"I... I've got something important to tell you."

He smiled nervously, let go of her hand, and slipped back into bed.