This has about 32k written so far- and no I haven't given up on other fics- just have the attention span of a gnat :P

A giant thank you to abradystrix, for betaing and britpicking, and a big thanks to diva-gonze/amysthefardareismai for a bit of editing as well! :)

chapter warnings: somewhat graphic descriptions of violence

The spell ripped through her. She was sure that muscles tore away from bone. She was flayed, raw and screaming. Ropes cut into her skin. Her back arched unnaturally. All she could feel was the pain searing through her, again and again. Unrelenting pain.

Please kill me...

And then it stopped, and she let out a pitiful cry, rocking back and forth as much as the ropes would allow.

"I think the Mudblood enjoys it. Otherwise it wouldn't continue to lie."

She brokenly sobbed. Every muscle spasmed, and all strength left her. She couldn't even twist her face away as Bellatrix Lestrange's nails cruelly dug into her jaw.

"That filthy goblin will reveal your lies, and when he does, nothing will be able to save you," Bellatrix whispered in her ear. Hermione whimpered, trying to repeat that the sword wasn't theirs, but she couldn't speak. Her tongue was slack and nerveless.

"The sword is the true sword of Gryffindor," the little goblin declared.

An unholy shriek wrent from Bellatrix. She roughly pulled Hermione to her feet and snapped back her neck. All Hermione could see was the chandelier. A knife was brought to her neck and painfully pressed into her flesh.

"Let's see how filthy that blood is."

The knife tortuously sawed through her larynx. Blood was choking her, and gushing down her body. Was she was dying from the wound, or from drowning in her own blood?

With a gasp, Hermione woke up, hands going to her throat.

Her throat had not been slit; it was whole, with only had a small scar marring the otherwise smooth skin. She wasn't in Malfoy Manor being tortured. She was at the Burrow, probably one of the safest homes in all of England.

She gave a cold shiver. The patchwork quilt was wet through with perspiration, and her clothes clung to her. Her throat felt raw, which meant she had been screaming in her sleep again.

The silencing charm seemed to have held for another night, as Ginny was sleeping away in the bed beside hers. She puckered her lips to give a small whistle, but no sound came with the blow of air. Good. The charm was still working perfectly. With a wave of her wand she undid it.

There was no point in trying to fall asleep; she never could after a vivid nightmare like that one. She snuck out of the room and walked down the wooden steps to the sitting room with practiced ease. Making the journey almost every night, she had quickly learned how to avoid the creakiest floor boards. Her path along the hallway was pitch black, but the last bit of moonlight illuminated the sitting room, along with the earliest tinges of morning light.

In the darkness at the end of the sofa sat Ron. She wasn't surprised to see him. He'd been down there almost every night the past few weeks. It didn't matter if it was midnight or four in the morning, there he'd be, as if keeping watch for the house. She didn't think anyone but herself and perhaps his parents knew. She'd heard his mother admonishing him for his poor sleep habits, having come across him early in the morning.

From what Hermione gathered, he almost never went to bed until someone else was up, as if he were still taking watch outside that horrid tent. He would hold his wand and stare out the window, for hours sometimes. On a few nights where she hadn't felt like talking to anyone, she'd sat on the steps from the first landing and watched him pace back and forth, occasionally taking breaks to sit and bounce his knee. He didn't even have much of a lie in the following morning. He looked exhausted, but continued on as if nothing had happened, waking early and tending to everyone in the house like he was fine.

Tonight he was hunched over his chessboard. He grimaced in pain as he rubbed at his left shoulder. Fingers dug along his trapezius, before he gave a rough roll of his shoulder, stretching it around a bit. He let out a hiss, whether in pain or relief she couldn't say, until he gave a small smile and stretched, rotating his hand with a satisfied look on his face.

Hermione slid her feet along the floor a little louder than necessary to announce her presence. She knew better than to startle him, otherwise she would meet a wand pointed in her direction. Of course, this was true of almost everyone after the war. Harry was the fastest draw, but Ron was a close second, with equally flayed nerves and fast reflexes.

"You should be in bed," Ron chastised, but his actions belied his admonishment. He budged over and patted the sofa for her to sit beside him, which she happily did.

"Have you even been to bed yet?"

"Yeah, but I can only sit and listen to Harry's snoring and moaning about my sister in his sleep for so long." Ron had great purple bags under his eyes, but he skillfully changed the topic and she was too groggy headed to pursue it further.

"Well, you shouldn't have to sit in the dark like this just because you're having trouble sleeping. It can't be good for your eyes."

"I don't want to wake anyone with lights," Ron said with a tight shrug. "Past few nights Mum has scurried down the second I turned them on. She needs the sleep more than anyone. Plus, I wanted to be alone."

"I'm sorry I intruded," she apologized. She knew how hard it was to be around people anymore. Of course he needed an escape. Especially from her! She was rotten company anyway. "I'll just scarper back— "

She moved to get up, but he put a staying hand on her arm and gave her a faint smile.

"I'm happy to be alone with you, though," he said, smoothing a bit of her hair behind her shoulder, his hand lingering around her jawline.

"Oh!" she replied, a smile breaking across her face. Her cheeks burned as she settled in and leaned into his good shoulder. It wasn't as bony as it had been even a few weeks ago. He was back to having a deceivingly solid build for one so tall and thin.

He was always handsome to her, but the hunger they had experienced while they were runaways had made them all rather emaciated. During the war it was hard to take in the gradual changes they had gone through physically. In the fleeting moments they'd changed clothes in front of each other there wasn't the time to take in each other's forms. They were too focused on getting warm, and surviving, to even spare a glance much of the time.

It wasn't until they were at the Burrow, scrubbed clean of all the muck and dust that Hermione could finally see how hollow they all were. Ron had looked the most normal of them. He had always been tall and thin with broad shoulders, so no matter how much weight he lost, the width of his shoulders basically stayed the same size. He looked almost his usual self when dressed.

Normally Molly Weasley would practically be force feeding them, but the loss of her son kept her out of the kitchen. She stayed sequestered in her bedroom, sobbing for well over a week, barely leaving the room except for the myriad of funerals. Ron and Fleur had taken over the task of feeding everyone during the first weeks after the war.

A few days after Fred's funeral, Mrs Weasley finally started taking an interest in her remaining family again. She had little energy for cooking, but enough to start working on healing them all up a bit more properly.

One by one she sat them down and used a number of spells and tonics on the scars they'd picked up. Hermione thought Mrs Weasley's ministrations would be wasted, given how long ago their injuries had been, but she was able to achieve great progress on a few of the burns and scars.

One morning Hermione had come downstairs to see Ron shirtless in the living room, his mother tending to his shoulder to see if she could heal it any better.

"You did a number on yourself, Ron, splinching yourself like this," she heard the matron tut at him. It was Hermione's fault he'd been splinched so horribly, but he said nothing to correct his mother.

Hermione had quietly tried to read in the corner, but her eyes kept going to his body, specifically his left shoulder and the terrible scarring that was all her fault. She realized that day how skeletal he'd become.

His ribs, even the ones near his collar bones, were all apparent, the knobs of his spine far too pointed, and his hip bone, just visible from his sagging jeans, stuck out like a handle.

After that, his mother seemed to see it as her personal mission to make them plump up again. The boys were able to tear into her meals with fervor and pack on the pounds quickly, but Hermione found it difficult to eat much of anything.

Eating Molly Weasley's cooking for weeks had Ron filled out almost magically fast, and with it Hermione realized that he was broader of shoulder and taller than ever before. His threadbare clothes were all far too small for him, and no stretching charms could make them fit him much better at this point. She quite liked it when his jeans were a bit too tight, but she had never dared tell him that.

For all the ways their relationship had changed and brought them closer, there were still boundaries she hadn't dared to cross. She'd been able to cover up her nightmares from him for weeks. She didn't want anyone to know, but she especially wanted to keep the nightmares from Ron.

It was not just her that he was always watching over. He was watching over everyone. He was carefully watching Harry and prodding him to come out of his shell. He was watching his mother and making sure nothing disturbed her when she was in a somewhat calm mood. He was watching his brothers and making sure they got along. He was hunting down George and making sure he got home in one piece after drinking a bit too much. He was watching his father and making sure he had privacy when he was about to cry. He was looking after his sister, to make sure Harry and she were getting on. And he was suspiciously watching any stranger who came near them whenever they ventured from the confines of the Burrow.

He'd watched his brother die right in front of him, and he was doing his best to comfort everyone. He was so overwrought, she didn't want to burden him further.

"You're being quiet," Ron commented, not for the first time in the last few weeks.

She gave a sigh. Her mind was buzzing, but blank. She felt like her mind had been put through a french press, and all that was left was the grounds to be thrown out with the rubbish.

Even if she had her wits about her, it's not like she could sit and tell him about the fascinating day she'd had. Most days she sequestered herself in a dark corner and pretended to read until she nodded off. Anything interesting he'd probably seen, as they were quite joined at the hip. Under no circumstances would she tell him about her nightmares.

She gave a shrug, and wove her hand into his.

"I suppose I'm just tired."

And she was. Her whole body ached and she longed to curl up where she sat for a long nap. She wasn't even missing out on that much sleep in the scheme of things. She might have been woken by horrible nightmares, but she was getting so much sleep during the day she didn't see how anyone could still be so tired. Of the two of them, it was Ron who didn't sleep, yet he seemed more capable than ever.

Ron hummed in response.

"Let's go for a walk."

"A walk? It's four thirty in the morning!"

"And who doesn't enjoy a good early morning walk?" He rose and offered a hand to her. "Personally I think they're meant for a comeback."

"You do love an underdog," she replied, taking his hand, which pulled her to standing with ease.

He grabbed jackets and wellies from the scullery. They had a small collection of weathered canvas jackets, all smelling of hay and bonfires. She felt quite dwarfish when she put on the heavy jacket and its sleeves fell past her fingers by nearly a foot.

Ron laughed as she struggled to fold the heavy fabric back from her hands.

"Here, let me." Ron folded the fabric up her arm in a sweet doting way.

"Merlin, you're tiny. This is the smallest one they have!" he said, as he finished the job and held her hand in his own.

"Why don't you have a small one for Ginny or your mum? Neither of them are taller than I am."

"Oh they just wear the same ones we do if they happen to need them. Plus it's not like Ginny was made to shovel chicken coops, or dig up fence posts. Her chores were always more domestic."

The tiniest bit of morning light was beginning to peek from behind the hills, catching a few clouds and staining them pink.

"We can watch the sun rise soon," Ron said, seeing where her eyes were looking.

"It's funny. Technically I know when sunrise is, but somehow it always surprises me how early it starts getting light."

"I think that's because you grew up in the city."

"Why would that make a difference?"

"Well, when you grow up in the country you get pretty familiar with getting woken up early to do the chores before it gets hot."

"I don't remember you waking up early for anything," she teased.

"Course I did. We all had to at least a few times a week. We had a chart and everything for whose turn it was to feed the chickens, check the fences, get eggs and veggies. I never was a morning person, of course, so half the time I'd just go back to bed as soon as I was done with my lot."

"I never once noticed."

"Well you were asleep, weren't you, city girl?" Ron cheekily grinned as he easily hopped the wooden three rail fence they'd come upon. She struggled with her footing and awkwardly tried to climb it rail by rail. She'd never been particularly athletic or balanced, and found getting her boot over was a predictably unsteady affair. She had just managed to awkwardly straddle the fence when Ron put his hands at her hips, taking most of her weight and guiding her to the grass.

She gave her thanks and gave him a shy, but pleased, smile. He'd become more and more bold with touches here and there, but also a bit more tender and gentlemanly in how he looked after her. He'd always been chivalrous when it came to defending her, of course, but now he was practically gallant on a daily basis, putting out a hand to assist her, pouring her tea, holding an umbrella for her as they walked outside.

He had his elbow out for her to hold as they journeyed through some longer grass that hid a bevy of roots that she nearly lost her footing on. If it weren't for his heavy cursing and deep dose of sarcasm, he could easily fit into a historical romance novel from the way he doted on her.

"Where exactly are we going?" she asked, looking around at the unfamiliar bit of field.

"To get a better view of the sunrise."

Ron got to a tall tree and began hoisting himself up its branches.

"Ron! I can't climb the tree in—in wellies! I can't bend my ankles enough to do that in these and I'm not much for climbing, if I'm honest."

"I know that," Ron laughed, his upper body disappearing among some leaves. "Stay there a moment."

"Oh don't worry, I'm keeping my feet firmly on the ground! I don't care how good the view is, I'm not climbing that tree!"

"As fun as it'd be to see you try, that's not the plan."

In the twilight the upper branches were still blue hued and hard to make out. If not for the loud rustling of the branches, Ron would be easy to miss.

"There it is!" he cried in triumph. His feet dangled, as if he'd taken a seat. "Stand back!"

A wood and rope ladder clattered and unrolled itself from the tree before magically becoming rigid and straight as any staircase, complete with rope handrails.

"Come on up!"

She smiled as she easily ascended the stairs to join him. There was a little wooden platform, not much longer or wider than a bench. She wasn't afraid of heights, she liked to tell herself, but she also didn't enjoy them and would avoid them whenever she could.

Seeing her hesitation Ron rolled his eyes.

"There's a barrier around the edge I just reinforced. You couldn't fall off if you tried."

He flicked a twig at the edge and it fell no further than the edge of his trainers.

She sat beside him and leaned against his shoulder.

"I imagine that spell was your mother's work?"

"Dad's. We have a couple of these tree blinds hidden around. We'd sort of half-arsedly build them, then Mum or Dad would put protective spells around it so we don't break our necks or something. This one was usually Charlie's getaway place. And the- the twins… They were always trying to follow him up, so Dad put in some spells to make it safer if any of us weaseled our way up, but still afforded Charlie some privacy."

"I can just imagine you all now: sticky fingered, muddy knees, running about the property, climbing any tree you come across and throwing rocks into the pond to watch the ripples."

"It was pretty nice, yeah," he said with a pained smile.

"It sounds like the idyllic wild sort of childhood that I'd only been able to wish for."

"Your childhood never sounded so bad to me."

"It wasn't bad at all, really. I had everything I needed, and it was quite lovely most of the time. It just afforded very few places to commune with nature. I remember loving the local hardware shop my father would take us to when he had some home project to take care of. They had a wonderful garden area I loved to get lost in. I'd pretend I was in the jungle like the Swiss Family Robinson, and wanted a house like theirs so badly."

"So are these, like, famous Muggles or something?"

"They're a made-up family in a book. They got shipwrecked on a tropical island and had to make do. They built an amazing treehouse in the film, and we watched it every Christmas. It wasn't a particularly Christmassy movie, but it was a tradition of sorts for us."

"Dad would fish out the ornament boxes from the attic, cursing the whole time as he crawled in the cramped attic. Mum and I would make hot chocolate and hang the lights on the tree. It was a tradition that the tree would remain clear of everything but the twinkle lights until the whole family was together. Then we'd put the ornaments on together. We'd try to time it out so we'd put the star on top of the tree as the song 'O Christmas Tree' played in the film."

Hermione could remember her father trying to time it out year after year and they made it a sort of family challenge to get it right. They'd only properly managed twice, but the large whoops of glee they'd given had drowned out the film.

The last time they'd done it, was the Christmas of her sixth year. One by one they'd each hang ornaments. 'Baby's first Christmas,' woven lolly stick stars, fine German ornaments, and a few ugly old plastic electric ornaments from the 70s. Those had little child figures spinning in them that would short out the room if they were all plugged in to the same power strip. All the ornaments were placed on the tree with equal care. Her family grinned ear to ear at one another.

They were so happy. What had her parents done this year? Hermione had left the ornaments in the attic as she didn't have time to sort out the ones connected with herself, or that had their former names on them. Had she ruined their Christmas? Had they continued the tradition without Hermione? It wasn't like it was their first Christmas without her. She'd skipped four in a row, from ages thirteen through sixteen.

"That sounds loads nicer than Celestina Warbeck," said Ron. "I've never seen a film. Was the Swede Family Robins alright?"

"Swiss Family Robinson. It'd probably be slow paced for most people, as it's an older movie that came out back when my parents were just kids. It made quite the impression on me nonetheless. I begged and begged for a treehouse like the one in the film, but they said I'd grow tired of it too quickly and that it wasn't worth the danger of me falling. I tried to make myself a secret fort under a large rhododendron bush and got a good scolding from my nanny for it when she saw I'd dragged a nice table cloth in there. She tried to get me to leave, and I wouldn't. No matter how she grabbed for me, she couldn't get a hold of me. It was one of my first bits of magic. She thought I was wiggling out of her grasp somehow, but her own arm had gone rubbery and useless every time she thrust it into my little fort."

"How old were you when you had this little adventure?" Ron laughed.

"Oh, four or five. And don't make fun!"

"I'm not! I just like picturing that angry little look on your face. I can see it now, so tiny with hair twice as wide as your body, curled up with a book in your little fort, all excited for a piece of adventure and rebelling against nannies," he said, with a warm smile. "Did any of your friends have a playhouse or something you got to adventure in?"

"Oh… Well, I didn't… There weren't many children in my neighborhood, and I attended a small Church of England primary school, so even if I had friends, it was quite a lot of work to see anyone, make arrangements to be driven over and everything, so I didn't."

"So it was just you and some posh nanny?"

"Well don't think me a terrible snob for having a nanny. Both my parents worked, so there was no one else to tend to me until I was old enough to attend school all day," she rattled off, a bit embarrassed by her relative privilege. She felt silly complaining about it now. The poor little rich girl who didn't get a tree house!

"Sounds a bit lonely," he said, with a sympathetic look.

It had been lonely. Sometimes it felt like he could see right through her. Until Hogwarts Hermione had never had any real friends. There were a few children here or there that she'd gotten to play games with, but no real friends. Her parents were very loving and gave her every opportunity, but it wasn't like the loud warm familiar household of the Weasleys. In some ways her somewhat distant parents made it easier for her to leave for Hogwarts. You couldn't miss what you didn't get to see much of. She never resented it. It was just how things were. It also made it much easier to lie to her parents. She lied and lied, then finally just erased herself from their minds, and they'd never forgive her for it.

Hermione shivered at the thought and brought her knees to her chest.

"Well, that's enough about me," she said, trying to center herself. She plastered a smile on. "Did you have a hiding spot like this tree house?"

Ron jerked up sharply. The warm smile and deep eye contact he'd been giving her broke.

"No nothing like this."

He stared down at his hands and began to fidget and pick at his cuticle. She wondered what could have caused such a change in him, but perhaps it was just memories of Fred. She hated how good memories could become so painful. She gave his hand a squeeze and after a moment his big warm hand squeezed back.

"There it is," said Hermione as the sun began to peek over the hill. The puffball clouds became a lovely mix of peach and coral. "This really is a spectacular view. Thank you for— Ron, you're bleeding!"

Ron blinked before confusedly looking about himself. She grabbed his left hand and inspected it. He'd ripped the cuticle so deep it made her wince in sympathy. It had to sting with how deep he'd torn it and how much blood there was.

"Your thumb..."

"Oh…" He blankly took his left hand from her hold and sucked the blood away. She gave a tut.

"Don't put your mouth on it! Your mouth has all sorts of bacteria!"

"It'll be fine. It doesn't hurt at all."

And now he was pretending it didn't even hurt, and he was bound to get it infected.

"Well I don't care how fine you think it is, you shouldn't mutilate your finger like that then introduce bacteria to it."

"It's really not a big deal."

"You've messed up your fingers enough," she admonished, taking hold of his hand to point to his missing fingernails. "You don't need to mess up your thumb too."

"Just leave it, Hermione!" he snapped, ripping his hand away and marching down the ladder, shoulders tight and high. He was a few meters away from the tree when he sighed and turned around.

"I'm sorry. I'm just…" he shook his head. "I don't have a proper excuse. I was just thinking about— And you were pushing me and I… I'm sorry. Do you wanna continue watching the sun rise or did I bollocks it up?"

Hermione was about to shout back that he'd bollocksed it up pretty well, but stopped herself when she saw how pale he was. He was biting his lip and his hands were so clenched the knuckles had gone bone white. Something had rattled him, she just wasn't sure what.

"Are you alright?"

"'M fine," he said with a shrug.

The magic of the sunrise had been a bit tainted. She left the light of the sunrise and stepped down the wooden steps to hold his hand.

"How about we fix up your thumb, and then you show me your morning chores I've never gotten to see?"

"And I'll try not to be such an arse."

"And I'll try not to be so pushy about something so minor."

They walked in silence, hand in hand, back to the house before Ron gave her his lopsided grin. "Was that our first fight?"

"Of course not! We've fought loads of times!"

"Well yeah, but never when you were my girlfriend… At least I don't think?"

A thrill passed through her. Girlfriend! It felt silly, but she quite liked hearing him call her that.

"You're right," she agreed. She was sure she had a goofy smile on her face, but she didn't care.

"I guess I owe you a make up kiss."

"Yes, I'd say you do."

He gently pushed her up against a nearby tree and leaned over her. She stood on a root that helped narrow the height gap. His uninjured hand trailed up her arm before cupping her cheek and stroking it. His eyes were trailing all over her face and she couldn't bring herself to look directly at him. The intensity of his stare made her tremble.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?"

"I'm thinking about it," he said with a crooked smile. He leaned down, but missed her mouth entirely, his lips finding their way to her jaw and slowly working their way to her neck. She let out a small moan as he sucked at her pulse point, and her hands went to his copper hair. His kisses trailed back up her neck to finally find her mouth. A flush went through her as he kissed her deeply, one hand cupping the back of her head, another trailing up her side. She was just starting to kiss back with equal furor, hands on his hips when he pulled back with a hiss and jerked away from her.

"What's wrong?"

"Er… My hand got trapped," he explained, flexing his hand a bit.

"Oh right! We really need to fix that up."

"Sounds good," he said, turning away from her. "I think Dad has some Dittany and plasters in his shed."

"No argument?" she said, following his long strides.

Ron gave a shake of his head, before giving her a tight smile.

"I figure sooner I'm fixed up, sooner I get to kiss you again."

She beamed at that. He helped her over the gate again, and by the time they reached the shed she was quite grateful to be indoors. The morning dew had seeped through her pajama trousers and she was shivering. The shed smelled of musty wood and dust, and the floor wasn't paved. They called it a shed, but it more resembled a small barn. Ron turned a knob and the lamp above them glowed warmly, lighting up the dark space.

She'd never been inside Mr Weasley's shed before, and it was a fascinating sight. As Ron went to find some plasters, she took her time looking about. Everywhere she looked there were collections of Muggle paraphernalia she couldn't imagine anyone else in the world wanting to collect. She found boxes of twisted up slinkies, wires, batteries, holographic stickers, magnets and even a box of old fashioned rotary whisk.

She'd not ever used one of the mechanical whisks before and took it out to give a quick whirl of the handle.

"Found one of Dad's collections have you?" Ron asked looking at the whisk with a mix between embarrassment and distaste.

"Yes. I hadn't seen one of these in a while."

"What's it for? No, lemme guess! Looks like it could be a hair curler or something, doesn't it?" he said taking another whisk from the box and haltingly moving the handle. It gave a terrible rusty clatter. "God, do all muggle things have to make such terrible sounds?"

"No they do not," she laughed, demonstrating her own whisk.

"Oh, hand over the good one then," he said with a grin, giving it a test. "So is it something so people can get hair like yours?"

"Nobody would make a device to purposefully have hair like mine," she replied with a shake of her head. She could just make out her reflection in the mirror and frantically started to comb her fingers through it. "Oh no! I look like I've been snogging!"

"You have been," he laughed.

"Yes, but I don't want to look as though I have! Your mother will be up any moment and then she'll think I'm ghastly."

"I doubt she'd notice."

"How could she not! I look like a bramble patch."

"But a very attractive one."

"Oh! You're no help!"

"How am I supposed to help? Use this thing?" he said holding up a whisk.

"Don't you dare!"

He pointed the whisk at her and gave a pretend menacing look. She gave a laughing shriek as he gave chase. She weaved and ducked out of his way as he pursued her, twirling the handle all the way. When he'd finally cornered her, she was quite breathless as they smiled at one another. His grin faded into that same piercing look from earlier.

Her eyes fell to his lips, and she gave a rough swallow. He slowly wrapped a free hand around her waist, leaned down and kissed her again, this time so deeply she thought she might pass out from the pleasure of it. Their tongues began to dance with each other, and she felt a deep hunger growing within her that had nothing to do with food.

Her hand trailed up under his shirt and stroked against his solid frame, and his hand was making a similar journey up her top, just grazing the underside of her breast when the door to the shed burst open with a resounding crash.

They wrenched their lips apart, practically making a popping sound like a cork from a champagne bottle.

Mrs Weasley was pointing her wand at them in a menacing fashion, but upon seeing their intimate hold her eyes went wide and she dropped her wand to her side. It took considerably longer to retract their hands from each other's shirts.

"M-Mum!"

"I was feeding the chickens when I heard what sounded like screaming," she explained, face red. The sheepish look on her face quickly turned stern. "You two shouldn't be doing that with all sorts of dangerous Muggle things about… Skulking about in the dark. You're lucky neither of you ended up eklecktrified or worse! You should know better, Ronald Weasley. And what in the world is that?"

She said pointing to Ron's hand.

"Er… Hair curler?" Ron said.

"Well neither of you has use for that, now do you? Put it away before you poke out an eye or something."

Ron mutely nodded and put the whisk in its place, face a flaming red. Hermione imagined her face was a similar color, given the heat she could feel burning through her cheeks.

Mrs Weasley stood in the door and opened it, ushering the teens out and towards the house. They walked ahead and she marched behind them, until they reached the kitchen step. Ron made to open the door but Mrs Weasley gestured them to sit on a pair of weather worn wooden chairs beside the door.

"Now, you two, I understand something of young love and all that. Arthur and I weren't much older than you when we got married. I won't delude myself and think you've not… done certain things. After all you were off alone for months with no supervision, and you're of age—"

"Merlin, Mum!" Ron bleated, face the shade of an overcooked radish. He seemed to know where his mother was going with this. Hermione was in pure denial. Surely Mrs Weasley wasn't inferring that she and Ron had…. Had relations during the war? They'd barely snogged more than five or so times at this point. Hermione was mute with mortification.

"Honestly, Mum! We weren't doing— Doing that."

"I saw you two not minutes ago! I have seven children, and I know where that sort of snogging leads! If you're going to be taking things to that level of intimacy you really must make sure to use all the correct charms and potions."

Hermione's cheeks flamed as she closed her eyes tight in embarrassment.

"Now Hermione, I know you won't have learned them from your parents, of course, but do you know about contraception charms?"

"Mum! Please stop— We weren't—!"

"If you're caught snogging like that by your mother, you have to put up her making sure a pair of unwed teenagers don't make a silly mistake!" She turned again to Hermione. "Ron and all his siblings were taught this, but I want to make sure you know them too, dear. You need to use it every single time. I know some people will say it feels better without it, but that's complete rubbish! Do you know—"

"I know them, Mrs Weasley, thank you!" Hermione said, voice unnaturally high and loud.

"We both know them, Mum! Now can you please stop!"

"Fine! But don't make me catch you like that again!"

"Believe me, no one wants a repeat!" Ron said with a rueful shake of his head.

"Well, that's said then. Why don't you tend to the chickens and get some eggs, and I'll start on breakfast. Sausage and egg sandwiches?" Mrs Weasley asked lightly, not waiting for an answer as she went back into the house.

Hermione sunk her head into her hands.

"So…." Ron began. "That was— "

"I don't want to talk about it!" Hermione squeaked from behind her hands. Ron gave a laugh.

"Thank Merlin the twins didn't hear tha—" Ron cut himself off and blanched. Hermione quickly made a movement towards him, but he'd already risen from his chair, shoulders tight. She didn't know what to say in these moments.

Ron took a rattling breath, and Hermione was fairly certain he was stifling a sob. What would Ron do if the situation was reversed? He'd put an arm around her, let her say anything she needed, then distract her or make a joke. She was no good at jokes, but she could hold him and distract him.

She gingerly put a hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. He wiped at his eyes.

"For a second I honestly forgot…" Ron said with a shrug. "What kind of bastard forgets their brother's dead?"

She bit her lip. Seeing him hurt like this was painful. It would be so easy to start crying alongside him, but she refused her body's instincts. The last thing he needed was her sobbing all over him.

"I think it was more a behavioral habit than you actually forgetting. You're used to saying 'the twins' and noting what they'd find funny. It doesn't mean you did something bad. It will take a while, but eventually your habits will change."

"I don't know if that's not worse…"

Hermione didn't see how that was worse, but thought it was best not to argue the point.

"Well, if I want an egg sandwich, I'll need to get Mum some eggs, won't I?" Ron gave a deep sniff and smiled.

She hated the brittle smile he'd put on in these moments.

It had been weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts, but Fred's loss was still raw and painful for everyone. She couldn't imagine the family would ever really recover. Fred and George were always 'the twins.' It wasn't the first time someone had forgotten for a moment that Fred wasn't alive and referred to the twins this way. It was probably why George had been holed up in a Muggle hotel for weeks. At first she thought he'd want to be home, surrounded by family. He hadn't.

The morning of Fred's funeral George went missing. They looked all over for him, but no one could find him. When it was time for the funeral itself they kept waiting for George to arrive, or for him to pull some sort of prank in Fred's honor, or do something like set off some fireworks, or turn the somber event into a joyous wake. He hadn't.

Angelina had tracked him down to a Muggle hotel and informed the family with a Patronus. A few of them had wanted to track George down, but in the end they decided to honor his wish to be alone. They thought he'd change his mind and come home, or start up the shop again. He hadn't.

Ron had looked so lost that day. The whole family had, but seeing Ron look so devoid of focus had been disturbing. Even on the Horcrux hunt, when all of them were dazed from the locket, he'd managed to be a bit sharp. Yes, he'd complained and been aimless as she and Harry, but he'd been present. It was the one day Ron had taken to see to himself. He'd gone to the funeral, then spent the rest of his day in his bedroom unable to talk. She'd held him for hours as he stared off into space. The next day he was back to catering to everyone and fixing everything. He was back to hyper focusing on everyone's needs, and keeping himself so busy that he didn't have time to mourn.

She couldn't very well make him stay still, so she followed him to the chicken coop. She might not be able to fix anything for the Weasleys, or for anyone, but at least she could get them some eggs.