Work Text:
The Choice
Hermione jolts awake as thunder vibrates the walls of the cottage. Rain drums against the roof along with the sound of waves crashing over the shore—a sound that only amplifies the fear of being inside a house that could potentially wash away. She drags in deep, ragged breaths, attempting to clutch the sheets on her bed for additional safety.
Another crackle of thunder roars in the distance. The low rumble is enough for her to bolt from the bed without hesitancy, bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor.
She has to get out of here. Go somewhere, anywhere.
Remember how to breathe, Hermione. Just breathe.
Hermione slips into the narrow hallway, bracing her arm against the nearest wall to keep her balance as the house shifts from side to side like a boat rocking at sea. Sand sticks between her toes from the beach laden floor. The entire hall leading to the bathroom is bathed in darkness with the exception of the lightning that flashes in small bursts of light before quickly shuddering again.
How is everyone else still in bed with this disturbance?
Another clap of thunder startles her away from the wall. She diverts her plan for the bathroom, instead opting to duck into the slanted closet next to her bedroom. Hermione breathes in the salty air, shoulders brushing up against several coats hanging on hooks. She pulls on the string bulb hanging in the center to welcome new light into the room. It’s a relief for a fleeting few seconds before the light flickers and then goes out.
Hermione groans. It’s fine, everything is fine.
Somehow the world shrinks even smaller than it was before. She leans her forehead against the wood paneling, attempting to steady her shaky breathing. Maybe she should have just stayed in bed. At least she had the warmth of her covers there instead of the chill working its way up her spine from the wind seeping in through the small crack in the round closet window.
The door clicks open before she spirals completely. Hermione hitches in another breath, fighting to regain her composure for whoever has just discovered her moment of panic in a tiny broom closet. A pair of hands hover over her hunched form for a moment before gently landing on her shoulders.
“Hey…”
Hermione could’ve cried tears of relief. Out of everyone at Shell Cottage right now, it’s Ron who has found her. She wanted it to be him. He’s barely left her side in days, only when Harry drags him away to sleep.
The intensity of his concern for her is overwhelming at times—the way he screamed for her at Malfoy Manor, begged to take her place, and clutched her in his arms after she was released. She wasn’t prepared for anything good to come out of being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange. But he is the good. He is part of the realization that she isn’t alone. Not then and certainly not now.
She turns to find him in the darkness, tangling his arm with hers to pull him close. A new warmth radiates through her.
“Hermione, talk to me.”
She could try to find the words, but words seemed too complicated tonight. Tonight she wants to breathe him in, cave in to the closeness she’s craved for months thinking it wasn’t going to be hers to ever have. Hermione leans forward and presses her forehead into the softness of his pajama shirt, right over the pulse of his heartbeat. Her fingers curl into the soft fabric as his hand settles on her waist.
There are no words to tell him to touch me, hold on tight and don’t let go, but he seems to understand what she needs anyway.
“Hermione…” Ron sighs out her name, shuddering against her as he pushes her back against the wall so that he can brace his hand above her head to anchor them there. Her next breath hitches in her throat, a new closeness between them.
This is uncharted territory. A Room of Requirement that they’ve yet to explore.
Another boom of thunder rattles the walls of the house. Ron’s arms reflexively tighten around Hermione, steadying her amidst the uncertainty of the storm looming over them. He bows his head down to meet hers, breaths tangled together, both struggling to gain control over what is about to happen at this moment.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed right now,” he murmurs.
“I’m not fragile, Ron. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Ron’s voice drops to a rough growl. “You don’t get to tell me that I shouldn’t worry about you. Not after the past few days.”
Hermione’s hand slides to his cheek, silencing their brief argument. He leans into her touch and releases a sharp exhale through his nose. Wind presses against the windows with tiny flashes of light illuminating Ron’s face for the briefest of seconds before fading away. But she can feel him. She can feel the way his body eases into her touch. She can sense the choice humming between them now. Should they talk? Should they call it and go back to bed?
Neither choice is what Hermione yearns for at the moment. She wants to kiss him. She wants to kiss him so fiercely that every unsaid confession, every passionate argument they’ve had, and every missed opportunity just vanishes. She wants to be honest for once, even if they can’t yet use their words to properly express how they feel.
Talking would mean…everything. And they can’t be everything yet. The real conversation will still be waiting, even after today. They owe it to themselves to wait.
With a pounding heart and shaky fingertips trailing upward, she runs a hand through Ron’s hair, lingering within the softness of his strands. Hermione is hesitant to move again, afraid that he might pull away. He responds by gripping her hips with both hands, a firmness that clearly signals I wouldn’t dare.
Her tactile senses take over, tracking the movement of Ron’s hand as it slips higher and higher until his fingers are splayed along the length of her spine. Hermione’s lip catches between her teeth. A new heat blooms low in her stomach, amplifying every single desire she’s ever had for this brilliantly frustrating man in front of her.
Ron’s grip softens as if sensing how shallow her breathing has become. Before he can interrupt the moment by asking her about it, Hermione’s restraint snaps. She tugs Ron into her with a force that propels her own back against the wall once more. Ron lets out a sharp laugh, now crouched to avoid hitting his head on the slanted roof of the closet. But he doesn’t ask to move to a more comfortable location nor does he choose to back away.
The loose shirt around Hermione’s shoulder slips down as the wall vibrates again from the force of the thunder, exposing her shoulder to the open air. Her hand catches with his at the same time, both moving to assist with pulling the fabric back up. But once Ron’s fingers meet the bare skin there it doesn’t seem to be an option anymore. He brushes her hand away, instead focusing on the tiny hollow near her collarbone. His fingers smooth over the slope of her neck, and it’s a sensation that Hermione is certain to be better than any kiss she could ever have.
“Fuck.”
Ron’s penchant for swearing during intense moments surprisingly doesn’t annoy her this time. Hermione’s head lolls back, arching to allow him more space to explore. The ghost of his lips trail over her skin, barely grazing the column of her throat.
It’s madness, truly, how little insecurity there seems to be with how little conversation regarding the status of their relationship they’ve had. After years of we aren’t going to talk about it behind them, what’s one more day?
It doesn’t even feel like they’re pretending to hide their feelings at this point. The word pretending seems laughable. Hermione has little doubt that at least some semblance of what she feels for Ron is reciprocated. This closeness, this need to always be touching, to be in tune with what the other wants or needs crossed the invisible line of friendship long before either truly realized what was happening.
“I can’t think anymore.” Ron buries his face into her hair, breathing in deep, ragged breaths.
“Too much?”
“Fuck, Hermione, you don’t even know how much I want to—”
A shaky “Yeah?” leaves Hermione’s mouth, desperate not to sound too eager but also not wanting anything to stop.
Ron’s thumb pads down her cheek and slides to her chin before tilting her face up until their noses touch. She can’t fully see his eyes, but she can feel him. Hermione has spent years maintaining her composure, careful not to reveal herself fully.
But this…this is the most vulnerable either one of them have ever been, even with very little talking.
It’s a fragile closeness they’ve found together, safe in this tiny little cottage away from the rest of the world. But their mission will soon continue. They’ve kept their feelings in check for so long, pushed to the side in favor of surviving a war they’ve sworn to battle.
Even now with their lips mere centimeters away, how easy it would be to close that distance…
“We can’t.”
Hermione’s voice trembles along with her words, despite her weak efforts to steady it. This is as far as they can go. She knows that, he knows that. An ache settles deep in her bones. It’s a frustrating ache—angry that they can’t have more than these stolen seconds pressed together in a broom closet.
One of Ron’s hands drops away from her face, but he still remains close. “We can’t do this now,” he echoes.
“Not until we can properly—”
“Right.”
The air grows thick and heavy, full of tension so unresolved that it seems blasphemous that they are choosing to walk away. But as Ron pulls Hermione into a tight hug, they both know it’s the right choice. Above everything else, they have to think of Harry, their families, and the entire magical world. The end is close now, Hermione can feel it.
She just has to hold onto that hope that there will be something left, anything left, for them after all is said and done. Before it disappears forever.