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Description
It had been a very long day. A day with two nights and two mornings, but still, one day for the three of us. A whole "day", as I say, that started at Shell Cottage, right before we broke into Gringott's, and finished with a slowly healing wizarding world, once Voldemort was gone forever. It had been a heavy combo of all possible emotions: eagerness, aprehension, panic, fear, adrenaline, horror, bliss, relief. And it was finally over. So many wins, too many losses. I knew that this was going to be a day to remember.
Once Harry's fate overpowered Voldemort's, our morning was filled by requests, explanations, descriptions, orders, advices, that could not be pushed back, even though we felt like ghosts. Instead of seeing three exhausted, starving, dirty and, above all, grieving, teenagers, people wanted to thank the golden heros, to talk to us, to share their sorrows with us.
Afternoon came, and the Weasleys finally decided it was time to go home, or rather, what was their temporary home. Naturally, they took us with them, Harry and me. We could not leave their family in that moment because we had nowhere else to go and because we were parts of it.
The borrowed home was Muriel's. I had a hard time remembering who on earth Muriel was, for that's all that they said. 'We're staying at Muriel's.' I wondered how was I supposed to Apparate there from Hogsmeade.
I turned to Harry to see if he shared my concern. However, it was Ron who was close behind me and who answered to my unsaid perplexity.
'I'll lead the way,' he said, only to me, offering his hand. My initial confusion induced him to think it was apprehension, and he added, 'Trust me.' I didn't make him wait longer; he looked me in the eye when I held his hand in mine –a look that made me aware of some recent events– but he did not attempt to smile nor make any comment.
We Disapparated. His hand seemed to slip away from me, but I didn't let it: when the breath-taking pressure I was used to stopped, his hand had the white prints of my fingers on it.
Muriel. I remembered who she was the moment she appeared in front of us in her burgundy night gown and heavy make-up, making rude demands that didn't take our exhaustion into account. Ron's Auntie Muriel.
She wanted answers for why everybody had left her house without her noticing, what were they doing in a war that wasn't their business, why there were too many people at her house and what was with their faces, as if anybody had died, when it was on the news that the Dark Lord was gone.
I only recall that I felt the blow for Mr and Mrs Weasley.
Ron gestured Harry and me to follow him up an intricate mahogany staircase; the whole house was wide and elegantly ornated in its construction, but also clearly imbibed with Muriel's particular eccentricities.
'Let's go to bed,' Ron told us as we climbed up behind him.
Once we reached a second staircase, he spoke again. 'I think all the bedrooms are taken. And reckon the more secluded we get, the better we'll rest. D'you mind if we sleep together one last time?'
Harry gave us a tired smile and replied, 'At this rate...'
We were led to a room that seemed to have the purpose of storing spare items –which painfully reminded us of a similar, bigger but less airy room that we had recently visited–; we found mattresses to lay on the floor and Ron proposed that we clean ourselves in one of the bathrooms.
Harry's slow breathing started almost immediatly after we got into our beds; I knew he had not been able to sleep in his earlier nap.
I found myself looking up at the ceiling, trying not to think. I was lying between Harry and Ron. Next to Ron. It wasn't easy to stay there, with all the things I had going on in my mind. And the feeling that he was not sleeping either.
I turned towards him. He had been staring at me. I knew it; you usually sense when somebody is gazing at you with intensity, almost wishing you would realise.
'Can't sleep?' I asked, to say something.
'It's funny how my whole being is begging for sleep but I can't... As if I had stuff to do yet,' he replied in a low voice.
'I know. But...' I breathed and encouraged myself to keep talking, to bring up the cursed subject at last, 'I won't be able to sleep either if you keep shooting daggers at me, Ron.'
'Sorry,' he mumbled, frowning slightly. 'It's not shooting daggers. It's...' he cleared his throat, 'it's us– us. The stuff I need to sort out.'
No reply. He had brought up the matter himself, that was nothing I was expecting. Nevertheless, I needed to hear the rest to be sure we were on the same page, so I let him speak again.
'Is there a... you know... an "us"?' he finally continued.
'Is that a philosophical question? An "us" like in...?'
I knew that was simply idiotic from me.
'No, it's not. "Us" like in "the two of us". Is there such a thing or–' He had an expression I couldn't define. A sigh escaped from my lips.
'Ron...' My words were measured; I was trying to gain some control over myself, 'I don't want to pretend that nothing happened. What I did–'
'We did,' he corrected me. Right. How to ignore that he had been there too, taking part.
'I know, but I mean that, for me... it wasn't something I was going to regret, something completely reckless or against my will. I...' I sighed again and forced my eyes to go back to the ceiling. Merlin, how to phrase this. 'I have feelings for you.'
Pathetic, a voice told me. And apparently, that's what he thought too, because I heard him make a funny noise with his nose. I turned to him violently. He had a lopsided grin that drove me mad in many ways.
'Are you... bloody laughing at me?' I failed miserably trying to sound outraged, but if I had to be honest with myself, I would have laughed too.
'No... well, actually,' he added in a change of heart, 'yes, I am laughing at you!' He leaned his head closer and lowered his voice when Harry let out a particularly deep breath. 'You take the lead and then you drop a line as "I've got feelings for you"? That's rather lame.'
Ouch, he was right. I went out of breath, noticing how close to me he was. 'Well, I don't know how to say it, Ron, honestly; perhaps– you wanted to slow down a bit or–'
'Hermione,' he cut me off; one of his hands were resting on mine and, as in electric shock, I reacted by closing my fingers around it, 'if we went slower, we'd go backwards.'
Was he really saying that? He spoke so calmly, so much more relaxed than me, that I was taken aback. He was certainly beating me in my own game. I chuckled, closing my eyes for a moment. When I opened up, he was still looking at me, steadily.
'So slowing down is off the table,' I said, holding his gaze in spite of a quickly spreading blush that wasn't precisely shyness.
'Definitely.'
'Um, okay, then... then there's an "us", I reckon–'
He stopped looking at me when his head came closer, and he kissed me with no further warning. Thank goodness, stop me from babbling nonsense, I thought as I tasted his lips again and confirmed that nothing of everything had been a dream. There were a thousand fireworks in that ceiling; nothing in the world –in the universe, in a million times– could dampen that precise moment. I tried to express without words everything I felt for him; I tried to comfort him, to relieve the grief he wasn't letting out, to tell him that I would be there for him. It was our second kiss.
Second!
Oops, I said that out loud.
'Sorry?' Ron asked, both confused and amused, parting slightly to look at me in his arms. I realised I was in his mattress by now.
'Hm, that... this is a second kiss,' I replied, embarrassed. 'Are you... um, you don't feel it's odd, do you?'
Odd? Merlin, Hermione, that was bloody brilliant,' he said out of breath in what, I thought, had been a rushed confession from him. Pleased, me? Bet I was.
'Not that! I mean odd because we are friends!'
'Ah yeah... But perhaps it's that we've never been the kind of friends-friends,' he paused.
'Excuse me? I think I have always been a good friend!'
'What I mean... is that friends don't feel jealous, for instance,' he admitted, smirking, 'and friends don't do pathetic or helpless stuff to get back to the other's good books.'
Yeah, he's got a point.
'It's not strange to me either.' And, as to confirm my words, I pressed my lips on his once more.
'Everything sorted out?' I inquired now.
'I'd like to say.'
'This is it, then? This is "us"?'
'Hm. But now,' he said, 'will there still be aggressive birds and rows or is that off the table too?'
A quick search made me spot a fresh half-grin spreading over his face.
'We'll see how we behave.'
It had been postponed for too long. We needed to sleep. He embraced me, one arm around my waist, the other holding my head, wrapped together with the same sheets. Before we fell asleep, he stopped smiling and looked at me. And I saw sparks.

Description
It had been a very long day. A day with two nights and two mornings, but still, one day for the three of us. A whole "day", as I say, that started at Shell Cottage, right before we broke into Gringott's, and finished with a slowly healing wizarding world, once Voldemort was gone forever. It had been a heavy combo of all possible emotions: eagerness, aprehension, panic, fear, adrenaline, horror, bliss, relief. And it was finally over. So many wins, too many losses. I knew that this was going to be a day to remember.
Once Harry's fate overpowered Voldemort's, our morning was filled by requests, explanations, descriptions, orders, advices, that could not be pushed back, even though we felt like ghosts. Instead of seeing three exhausted, starving, dirty and, above all, grieving, teenagers, people wanted to thank the golden heros, to talk to us, to share their sorrows with us.
Afternoon came, and the Weasleys finally decided it was time to go home, or rather, what was their temporary home. Naturally, they took us with them, Harry and me. We could not leave their family in that moment because we had nowhere else to go and because we were parts of it.
The borrowed home was Muriel's. I had a hard time remembering who on earth Muriel was, for that's all that they said. 'We're staying at Muriel's.' I wondered how was I supposed to Apparate there from Hogsmeade.
I turned to Harry to see if he shared my concern. However, it was Ron who was close behind me and who answered to my unsaid perplexity.
'I'll lead the way,' he said, only to me, offering his hand. My initial confusion induced him to think it was apprehension, and he added, 'Trust me.' I didn't make him wait longer; he looked me in the eye when I held his hand in mine –a look that made me aware of some recent events– but he did not attempt to smile nor make any comment.
We Disapparated. His hand seemed to slip away from me, but I didn't let it: when the breath-taking pressure I was used to stopped, his hand had the white prints of my fingers on it.
Muriel. I remembered who she was the moment she appeared in front of us in her burgundy night gown and heavy make-up, making rude demands that didn't take our exhaustion into account. Ron's Auntie Muriel.
She wanted answers for why everybody had left her house without her noticing, what were they doing in a war that wasn't their business, why there were too many people at her house and what was with their faces, as if anybody had died, when it was on the news that the Dark Lord was gone.
I only recall that I felt the blow for Mr and Mrs Weasley.
Ron gestured Harry and me to follow him up an intricate mahogany staircase; the whole house was wide and elegantly ornated in its construction, but also clearly imbibed with Muriel's particular eccentricities.
'Let's go to bed,' Ron told us as we climbed up behind him.
Once we reached a second staircase, he spoke again. 'I think all the bedrooms are taken. And reckon the more secluded we get, the better we'll rest. D'you mind if we sleep together one last time?'
Harry gave us a tired smile and replied, 'At this rate...'
We were led to a room that seemed to have the purpose of storing spare items –which painfully reminded us of a similar, bigger but less airy room that we had recently visited–; we found mattresses to lay on the floor and Ron proposed that we clean ourselves in one of the bathrooms.
Harry's slow breathing started almost immediatly after we got into our beds; I knew he had not been able to sleep in his earlier nap.
I found myself looking up at the ceiling, trying not to think. I was lying between Harry and Ron. Next to Ron. It wasn't easy to stay there, with all the things I had going on in my mind. And the feeling that he was not sleeping either.
I turned towards him. He had been staring at me. I knew it; you usually sense when somebody is gazing at you with intensity, almost wishing you would realise.
'Can't sleep?' I asked, to say something.
'It's funny how my whole being is begging for sleep but I can't... As if I had stuff to do yet,' he replied in a low voice.
'I know. But...' I breathed and encouraged myself to keep talking, to bring up the cursed subject at last, 'I won't be able to sleep either if you keep shooting daggers at me, Ron.'
'Sorry,' he mumbled, frowning slightly. 'It's not shooting daggers. It's...' he cleared his throat, 'it's us– us. The stuff I need to sort out.'
No reply. He had brought up the matter himself, that was nothing I was expecting. Nevertheless, I needed to hear the rest to be sure we were on the same page, so I let him speak again.
'Is there a... you know... an "us"?' he finally continued.
'Is that a philosophical question? An "us" like in...?'
I knew that was simply idiotic from me.
'No, it's not. "Us" like in "the two of us". Is there such a thing or–' He had an expression I couldn't define. A sigh escaped from my lips.
'Ron...' My words were measured; I was trying to gain some control over myself, 'I don't want to pretend that nothing happened. What I did–'
'We did,' he corrected me. Right. How to ignore that he had been there too, taking part.
'I know, but I mean that, for me... it wasn't something I was going to regret, something completely reckless or against my will. I...' I sighed again and forced my eyes to go back to the ceiling. Merlin, how to phrase this. 'I have feelings for you.'
Pathetic, a voice told me. And apparently, that's what he thought too, because I heard him make a funny noise with his nose. I turned to him violently. He had a lopsided grin that drove me mad in many ways.
'Are you... bloody laughing at me?' I failed miserably trying to sound outraged, but if I had to be honest with myself, I would have laughed too.
'No... well, actually,' he added in a change of heart, 'yes, I am laughing at you!' He leaned his head closer and lowered his voice when Harry let out a particularly deep breath. 'You take the lead and then you drop a line as "I've got feelings for you"? That's rather lame.'
Ouch, he was right. I went out of breath, noticing how close to me he was. 'Well, I don't know how to say it, Ron, honestly; perhaps– you wanted to slow down a bit or–'
'Hermione,' he cut me off; one of his hands were resting on mine and, as in electric shock, I reacted by closing my fingers around it, 'if we went slower, we'd go backwards.'
Was he really saying that? He spoke so calmly, so much more relaxed than me, that I was taken aback. He was certainly beating me in my own game. I chuckled, closing my eyes for a moment. When I opened up, he was still looking at me, steadily.
'So slowing down is off the table,' I said, holding his gaze in spite of a quickly spreading blush that wasn't precisely shyness.
'Definitely.'
'Um, okay, then... then there's an "us", I reckon–'
He stopped looking at me when his head came closer, and he kissed me with no further warning. Thank goodness, stop me from babbling nonsense, I thought as I tasted his lips again and confirmed that nothing of everything had been a dream. There were a thousand fireworks in that ceiling; nothing in the world –in the universe, in a million times– could dampen that precise moment. I tried to express without words everything I felt for him; I tried to comfort him, to relieve the grief he wasn't letting out, to tell him that I would be there for him. It was our second kiss.
Second!
Oops, I said that out loud.
'Sorry?' Ron asked, both confused and amused, parting slightly to look at me in his arms. I realised I was in his mattress by now.
'Hm, that... this is a second kiss,' I replied, embarrassed. 'Are you... um, you don't feel it's odd, do you?'
Odd? Merlin, Hermione, that was bloody brilliant,' he said out of breath in what, I thought, had been a rushed confession from him. Pleased, me? Bet I was.
'Not that! I mean odd because we are friends!'
'Ah yeah... But perhaps it's that we've never been the kind of friends-friends,' he paused.
'Excuse me? I think I have always been a good friend!'
'What I mean... is that friends don't feel jealous, for instance,' he admitted, smirking, 'and friends don't do pathetic or helpless stuff to get back to the other's good books.'
Yeah, he's got a point.
'It's not strange to me either.' And, as to confirm my words, I pressed my lips on his once more.
'Everything sorted out?' I inquired now.
'I'd like to say.'
'This is it, then? This is "us"?'
'Hm. But now,' he said, 'will there still be aggressive birds and rows or is that off the table too?'
A quick search made me spot a fresh half-grin spreading over his face.
'We'll see how we behave.'
It had been postponed for too long. We needed to sleep. He embraced me, one arm around my waist, the other holding my head, wrapped together with the same sheets. Before we fell asleep, he stopped smiling and looked at me. And I saw sparks.