Before I get started: I have been playing with this story for a long time now. And, while I still haven't completed it, I've decided to begin to share it with all of you. After spending almost a year with the Ron & Hermione from "Unexpected Family Magic," it was a challenge to get back into the head-space of the much younger, much more recently traumatized Ron & Hermione immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts. But, as I wrestle with issues and themes I see in my own life and reflected in the world in all of its insane reality these days, the questions of grief, forgiveness, love, courage, commitment, self-doubt, responsibility, connection and hope have been forefront in my heart and mind. And, at least from my perspective - Ron and Hermione must have been drowning in a storm of those same emotions in May of 1998.

Reviews, feedback, etc - I love it, welcome it and hope for it! I really do love to hear your comments. As this story is more than 150,000 words so far, obviously much is already written (if not finely edited), so please don't take it personally if I don't incorporate your idea or get back to you right away. I can't always reply - but I read every comment and message. I am so grateful you take the time to read my stories!

I'm not JKR, I don't own these characters. But I am grateful she lets us play with them.

I hope you enjoy...and now, on to chapter 1...

Chapter 1

Ron stood in the quiet kitchen, hearing nothing but the dripping sink and the wind rustling the trees outside. The moon was almost full, and its beams streamed through the kitchen so brightly that there was no need for a lantern. The house was quiet, which in its own way was disconcerting. He could never remember the house being quiet growing up – not even when it had been just him and Ginny. There had always been something bustling - his mum's charmed knitting needles click-clacking away making Christmas jumpers or the cutlery charmed to chop the potatoes for supper. And always, always, the whirring of the family clock had been there, an auditory foundation to the house and the family. But now it was silent.

A lump formed in his throat as he looked up at the space on the wall where it had stood until just the day before yesterday. Following Fred's funeral two days prior, George had been brought back into the house, and - in what everyone presumed to be a fit of grief-induced accidental magic – the clock had suddenly pried itself from the wall, the gears wrenched themselves off and the whole thing shattered into tiny pieces. No one had even had the heart to comment on it. Someone, he was betting on Hermione or Fleur, had quietly cleaned it all up. All that remained was an outline of the clock on the wall where the paint that had been hidden behind it hadn't faded over the years. Well, that, and silence.

Sighing, he looked around the strangely silent kitchen. As he sat he thought the silent emptiness of the room might actually suffocate him. It was almost as if the room was a fake replica of the home he had known. Like a muggle painting where there was no life to be seen in the image – just a still frame. While there was a kettle on the hob where Ginny had left it before going to bed, it contained no water, let alone a steaming kettle of reassurance. The biscuit tin was on the counter, but it was long empty, with even the crumbs shaken out by someone. The sink was empty of pots and pans not because they had been cleaned and put away, but because no one had used them to cook anything. The kitchen felt like a hollow shell, and so did his heart. Still crushed by the silence, he felt compelled to take a gasp of air and force oxygen into his lungs.

The last ten days had been so surreal. Between cleaning up the school after the battle, dealing with Kinglsey and the Ministry officials, securing and cleaning The Burrow, trying to help his family and attending way too many damn funerals, he really hadn't had a minute to himself to breathe let alone begin to put together anything resembling thoughts on everything that had happened. And he knew grief was not the only overwhelming emotion churning through him. There were such extreme feelings at all ends of the spectrum that it was almost impossible to hold them all in his mind and heart at the same time.

From the moment Voldemort fell, it was as if he'd been caught in some sort of tidal wave of crowds. From that first moment they'd been surrounded by family and friends and students and professors. They'd been overwhelmed by people bleeding, crying, hugging, smiling, dying, weeping and heeling. And while so many people had so many questions, they hadn't really had much chance to go over the details with his family or the Order. And he certainly hadn't been able to have any time alone with Harry and Hermione either since the fighting had ended. It was strange, for months his whole world had been only those two people. And he went stir crazy trying to get snippits of news about the outside world. But then they were suddenly catapulted back into the world and now he desperately missed their time alone. And at the same time, he thought, he also just wanted to be alone with Hermione and figure things out, whatever "things" meant. It was mad to miss someone who was right there living in the same house as him, but he missed her anyway. Just like he missed George and his mum. They were there, but not, all at the same time. And it was completely different than the pain from missing Fred, but it was still painful.

He knew his older brother was gone. And while it hurt like hell and made it hard to breathe sometimes, he understood it. The crazy two-eared prankster was gone, frozen forever in time as a jovial young man struck down too soon. And "FredandGeorge" were sure as hell gone. And George might not be dead, but the George Ron had known was gone. George and his mum were both so overrun with grief that it felt as if they were dead somehow too. Except for the funeral he didn't think either had left their rooms at all. All they did was sleep – or pretend to anyway.

But then Hermione... Just at the thought of her Ron felt himself sigh and rub his eyelids trying to make sense of everything. She had kissed him. She had bloody well kissed him in the middle of the battle because he'd asked about house elves. House elves! Blimey, just thinking of it made him unconsciously move his hand to his lips in memory of the moment. He'd been both thrilled and terrified at the same time. Thrilled, well, obviously thrilled, but scared that she was saying goodbye.

And after the battle when they were still at Hogwarts, they had been able to just be together and it had felt so right. Ridiculously natural. Like what the hell had they been thinking the past 7 years. They'd sort of just melded into each other as if they had been doing that all along. It had been nothing past holding hands and a few tender kisses really, but the physical connection had been undeniable. And it had made him feel like maybe he could survive the tragedy around them. And in the midst of the hordes of people after the battle, her hand had felt like a lifeline to him. He hadn't worried about trying to solve everything then because he knew they now had time for all of that. But – but, then they came home, and they never actually got to have a moment alone together. And he began to question and re-think everything – had it just been the adrenaline of winning? Was it pity? Did she regret it? Had he just been delusional thinking more was possible?

He'd been so overwhelmed with caring for his family and their home while planning Fred's funeral and attending so many others than he had more or less gone on autopilot. He couldn't allow himself to think about anything, he'd just had to keep going. One foot in front of the other. He couldn't allow himself to crumple under the grief or despair as he was quite sure that once he did he wouldn't be able to get back up.

But the last of the funerals had been earlier that day. It had been little Collin Creevey's funeral, which was a real gut punch to all of them. They casket had been felt so small. And the funeral had been a muggle one, of course, and it had just felt ridiculous to nod and smile sadly while all of his muggle relatives heard how Collin had died in a terrible car accident. He had died a hero, but the situation just didn't allow most of his friends and family to know that. Which was utter shite.

When Ron had come home from Collin's funeral that evening, he finally allowed himself to think that his public role in this nightmare could finally be done. He didn't have to shake more hands or listen to people give condolences or thank you's or ask about what they had been doing all this time. He could finally just turn inward to take care of those he loved the most. But as he'd observed everyone at The Burrow as he'd thought about it that evening, he realized what bad shape everyone was really in. Not physically – well, they didn't seem too bad anyway. Burns and cuts were healing. Bones seemed to have regrown. Hermione still had some episodes of muscle pain and weakness, but that seemed to be improving too. When he'd looked at Ginny, he'd felt pangs of guilt as he realized how much she had been through that year. And Gin was flatly refusing to let Harry out of her site if at all possible. Harry, for the most part, seemed ok with that. While he was doing the typical Harry thing of brooding and feeling responsible for everything bad that had ever happened, he really just looked hungover. Like he was finally emerging from a deep fog and trying to figure out where he was and what the hell had just happened. And while both Ginny and Harry looked rough, they looked a little better each day. The dark circles under their eyes were still prominent, but they seemed to fade just the tiniest bit each day. But then there was Hermione. Hermione was most assuredly NOT looking better. Every day he would hope things could turn around, but it was like watching her fade in front of him. And it terrified him.

Ron sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and placed his face in his hands. He curled his bare feet against the worn wooden floor thinking of how many times Fred had done the same thing. He looked at his pale feet there in the dark kitchen, glowing in the reflected moonlight coming from the window. Fred used to tease him about his giant feet. He'd always said Ron was like a puppy who needed to grow into his oversized paws. He smiled thinking of his brother and sent up a silent prayer that he was ok, and that he would keep taking care of George from wherever he was.

He stretched his arms straight over his head as he yawned and arched his back, cracking several joints back into place. He cast a tempus charm and realized it was just after 3 am. While his body felt exhausted and heavy, his mind was churning, and he knew sleep wouldn't come. Anyway, it was easier to be awake downstairs than laying in his bed picturing horrible things in his mind or listening to Harry fight off his own nightmares – or worse – have dreams about his little sister. Ugh. Now he had to get that thought out of his head.

He stood up and decided that maybe he'd make biscuits to fill the tin back up. Wasn't like his mum was going to do that anytime soon, as she barely left her bed these days. She was only a shell of her former self right now. But, Ron was still holding out hope that it was still temporary.

He cast a one way silencing charm around the kitchen so he wouldn't wake anyone who had been able to sleep and then started to pull out the pots and ingredients he thought he'd need. Of course, as he did this it occurred to him that he didn't actually know how to make biscuits as his mum had always made them. But, he smirked, ignorance, inexperience and lack of planning had never really stopped him from trying things before, so he rummaged through a pile of old cookbooks in the pantry and found several recipes that 1) looked like something he'd eaten before and 2) had enough stains and smudges on the page that he was certain his mum had actually used the recipe at some point. Setting his sights on the page labeled "Cinnamon Sugar Biscuits," he went about collecting the rest of needed ingredients, even donning his mum's orange pinny in an attempt to channel her talents. He mostly ignored the directions and spells in the book and simply dumped the various ingredients into the bowl to stir together. Looking at the wet, lumpy concoction in the bowl before him, he realized that, just like potions, there probably was a bit more to it than throwing it all in the cauldron. But, he also figured that if he put enough cinnamon and sugar on top, no one would complain anyway.

He was picking egg shell bits out of his batter when he heard quiet footsteps walking on the old wooden stairs. He looked up to see if anyone was coming downstairs or if it was someone simply headed to the loo. Much to his pleasant surprise Hermione walked into the kitchen. The fact that she was in thin pajama bottoms and his old Cannons shirt temporarily took his breath away.

Regaining his voice he offered an awkward, "Hi," as he attempted to wipe any wayward flour off of his face.

Her face morphed from shock to amusement in a fraction of a second. "What on earth are you doing?" she laughed in a whisper.

"Couldn't sleep," he shrugged. "And, it just seemed wrong for the biscuit tin to be empty around here, so I thought I would make something to fill it up with."

She stared at him in entertained disbelief for a moment before she shook her head as if shaking the tired fog away.

"Need any help?" she offered.

He gave her a lopsided grin and nodded. She found another pinny of his mum's in the cupboard and joined him at the counter. He sheepishly showed her the bowl of thrown together ingredients, and he could tell she was trying very hard not to laugh.

While practically biting her lips to keep from openly laughing, she asked, "Have you ever actually made biscuits before, Ron?"

He laughed, "I would think the answer to that question was a bit obvious."

She unsuccessfully tried to restrain her amusement. "Merlin knows I am not at home in a kitchen, but I have actually made biscuits before, though admittedly it was the muggle way. May I?" she asked, reaching for the bowl.

"Please," he sighed. "Maybe we should just chuck that batch and start over."

She looked as if she would protest for a moment, but soon nodded. "You're probably right."

"I know," he said avoiding her eyes. "Feels weird to be throwing food away after we were so hungry for so long. It's like my brain hasn't realized yet that the starving time is over."

She nodded. "You're right, of course," she said thoughtfully. "It's like the body is still reacting as if it's starving or threatened even though rationally I know we're not. I've found myself tucking a roll into my jumper sleeve without even realizing it. And the weird thing is I do that when I'm not even hungry. I didn't even eat that roll. I think I just needed to know it was there. Totally bizarre. Not sure when I'll feel normal again. "

"Hmph," Ron scoffed with a breath. "I'm not sure any of us are normal. Let's face it. If we were, we probably wouldn't be up at three in the morning baking biscuits now, would we?"

"No. No, I suppose we wouldn't," she said sadly.

Silence settled around them as she vanished the first attempt at the recipe, and they set up to start over. She started measuring the dry ingredients out while he watched her work.

"Do you think that feeling of being constantly on edge will ever go away?" she asked meekly.

Ron eyed her carefully, not completely sure where she was going with this. But before he could answer she handed him an empty bowl, a sifter and a bowl of dry ingredients.

"Here – sift these," she said.

The questioning raised eyebrow and blank expression let her know he didn't know what sifting was, so she laughed and demonstrated the technique for him.

"Huh. S'like snow. Don't know that I get why you have to make the flour flurry about like this for biscuits, but it's kinda fun," he shrugged.

"It's lovely, actually. Quite therapeutic I suppose. Something calming. Can't imagine we could just sift things all the time, though, huh?"

"Probably not," he said softly. "But I'll take it for tonight."

She looked at him and smiled but didn't say anything.

He smiled back at her and said, "and to answer your other question, I'm not sure. I'm confident things will get better for each of us at some point. That it won't be so raw, I guess. But," he paused for a moment searching for his words. "But it is really hard to even imagine a time where I could feel safe putting my wand down somewhere and walking about the room without it."

She stopped her mixing for a moment and looked down at her bowl of butter, sugar and eggs, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the thought.

She finally said in the faintest of whispers, "No. I can't imagine that either."

He nodded as finished the last of his sifting, and then in a much more upbeat tone he declared, "OK. Successfully sifted, I hope. Now what?"

"Now we mix your bowl into mine," she said turning to get a spoon. Turning back she yelped, "No! Not all at once!"

But it was too late. He had flipped the bowl upside down over hers, and the cloud of flour dust poofed into the air, covering both of them and much of the counter in the fine white powder.

Hermione froze in momentary shock as she was coated in powder. Her eyes had instinctively squeezed shut, and she opened them slowly and surveyed the mess around them. Both of their faces were covered in a chalky mask, as was their hair, the counter and the floor. Though, shockingly, a lot of it did somehow manage to get into the bowl.

"Yeah, I get why it shouldn't be all at once now," Ron laughed.

"Brilliant," she smirked. "Glad that's a lesson we don't have to repeat then," she said as she chuckled and shook her head, causing flour to fall all around her.

"See, this is a moment where our paranoia is helpful. I just happen to have my wand on me, and I can just clean us right up," he said with a flick of his wrist.

"So maybe our paranoia will pay off in the end," she said with a wistful chuckle as the flour vanished from the counter.

"Oh, I think it's already paid off," Ron said. "I mean, we'd both have been goners many times over without it, yeah? Now we just have to learn to believe that being safe is the default, not being in danger."

"I'm not quite there yet," she said as she wiped her face with a tea towel.

"Me either," he conceded as he dusted off as well. "Few too many Death Eaters out there who'd love to have the last word."

She flicked her wand to siphon off the remaining floury mess from both of them and then stirred the bowl, incorporating the remaining pile of flour into the wet batter.

"It won't ever be the same, will it- as it was before," she said, more as a statement than a question.

He eyed her carefully, feeling something shift in the air between them, but unsure exactly what it was.

"Mostly not," he said carefully. "But I hope that some things won't be all that different. And maybe some things will be different but in a good way."

She looked up at him as she finished mixing the batter. She stared at him a moment, and then he noticed a miniscule shake of her head, as if she had decided against saying something or was trying to shake a thought from her head.

After another moment she gave him a smile and said, "Time to scoop these onto the pans."

He nodded silently, fetched the baking sheets, and then copied her movements as she began to scoop out the dough, roll it into a ball and then roll the ball through the mixture of cinnamon and sugar before placing them on the pans. They worked in comfortable silence and then placed the trays into the warm oven. Ron began to clean up their mess as Hermione cast a time charm to alert them in eleven minutes.

"Smells amazing already," he grinned as he set the pots to scrub in the sink.

"That mixture of cinnamon and vanilla has always been one of my favorite smells," admitted Hermione, suddenly blushing. She glanced up hastily but breathed a sigh of relief when she realized he hadn't caught the reference to his shampoo.

She watched him finish cleaning up and wiping down the counters. "Tea?" he offered.

"Please," she nodded.

He busied about with the kettle and mugs as she took a seat at the table, and he soon brought the steaming mugs of tea to where she was sitting. They each took a sip and scrunched up their noses in distaste.

"Sorry 'both that," Ron laughed, switching the mugs. "I gave you the sugared-up-one by mistake."

She laughed and sipped the other mug, nodding. "This is more like it."

She looked back at him, laughed, looked down and blushed, hoping he hadn't noticed. But she wasn't that lucky.

"What?" he laughed.

She took a deep breath and set her mug in the table. Then with her right hand she gently ran her thumb across his cheek under his left eye. He stared at her, not daring to breathe or blink, her touch searing like lightening into his skin.

"It's just you have a bit of flour just next to your nose right there," she said almost breathlessly.

Without thinking, his hand immediately went to his face, holding her hand against his cheek. He looked at her, close enough that he could feel her breath against his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. As he opened his eyes again, he stared right into her swirling chocolate eyes, and neither looked away.

In a deep, raspy voice barely above a whisper, he said, "You know, Hermione, there are some things that I don't want to go back to how they were before the war."

"No?" she breathed.

"No," he said as their lips inched towards each other, his hand still pressing her palm to his cheek. Just as their lips were about to graze, the bell from the tempus charm went off, buzzing and chiming to alert them to the now-baked biscuits.

They both burst into laughter, cheek against cheek, Hermione's forehead falling against his shoulder as she chuckled.

"Bloody hell," he said shaking his head as he stood and quickly took the trays of biscuits out of the over. "There really can't be two people in the history of the universe with worse timing than us."

She was grinning, and had gotten up to stand next to him at the counter. He took off the oven mitts covered in a pattern of hearts and brooms and they grabbed spatulas to move the warm biscuits from the pans to the cooling rack.

Ron was trying hard to get one of the biscuits from the corner of the pan onto the spatula, but it broke in two. Immediately he moved his hand to try and push it onto the kitchen tool but ended up burning his finger instead.

"Bloody hell!" he yelped as he shook his finger and immediately sucked on the burn to try to cool it.

"Language, Ron," she chided in a teasing tone. "Come on, now. A biscuit burn can't be nearly as bad as fiendfyre."

He gave a huff of defeat, but continued sucking on his burned finger.

"And you know what?" Hermione continued as she inched closer to him. "I think that there's bound to be someone out there with worse timing than us."

"Not bloody likely," he mumbled, finger still in his mouth. "We are pretty spectacular in that area."

"Well, I'll give you that," she said as she slowly pulled his finger out of his mouth to examine his burn. She kissed it lightly and then blew on it, sending shivers up Ron's spine as he felt time freeze in front of him. "And speaking of spectacular, I must say," she added in a breathy voice. "I have never seen any man look so spectacular in a pinny as you do right now."

"Oh is that so?" he smirked, his ears turning red. "I quite like it, actually. Worked, dinnit? The best chef is a messy chef."

"Well, then you must be the very best there is. Guess you win that one too," she teased.

"I think I am winning in a lot of things right now," he smiled back, his tone deepening as the air between them changed once again.

"Me too," she sighed.

Their eyes were locked, and he felt them moving ever so slowly closer to each other, his hand finding her hip as he pulled her gently towards him.

"I've missed you," he said earnestly. "I've missed this."

"Oh, Ron, I've missed us too," she sighed as he bent to kiss her.

The kiss started slow, sensual and soft, finally having this moment for just the two of them alone. One of his hands slid up from her hip to run his fingers through her hair as his other hand pressed tightly to her lower back, causing her to arch up towards him. She had risen onto her tiptoes, and one of her hands found its way up to the back of his neck while the other softly held his face. But then his tongue passed her lips, and her leg rose up, pulling him even closer, and in a flash their moment went from sweet to passionate. His hands flew to her bum, lifting her up to the counter where they could be at the same height. She whimpered in pleasure as he ran his hand up her thigh while kissing her pulse point. But just as she took his ear in her mouth, they heard footsteps on the stairs and flew apart, Hermione jumping down from the counter and tucking her hair behind her ear.

By the time Arthur walked into the kitchen, Ron was placing the freshly baked biscuits on a plate while a blushing, chuckling Hermione was fussing with the pans in the sink.

"Ron! Hermione! What are you two doing up so early? Or is it so late? I guess I don't even know anymore," mumbled Arthur as he moved towards the kettle.

"I couldn't sleep," shrugged Hermione, wiping her mouth subconsciously with the back of her hand. "And when I came down for tea I found Ron attempting to bake biscuits."

"Yeah. She stepped in and rescued the whole operation. As usual, her timing was..." he smirked as he glanced at her still swollen lips, "spectacular. Let's just say that without her help the biscuits would have been too crunchy from the eggshells for even me to eat."

Arthur made a face. "Well, thank you for stepping in and alleviating that disaster, my dear," Arthur said teasingly to Hermione who was blushing.

"What are you doing up this early? It's what, not quite 5 or so?" Ron asked.

"Oh, who knows? Partly because I can't sleep either. But partly because there is just so much to do. Kingsley needs so much help at the Ministry, so I have been trying to go in early each day. And Percy does the same. But, he floos here and usually has tea and toast with me first, and then we go in together."

"I didn't know he was doing that," said Hermione thoughtfully. "I'm glad you two are finding some time together. Probably good for you both. Here. We'll make you a proper breakfast. Ron, pour your father some tea, please. And then you can set the table."

Ron nodded and did as instructed, reaching for his father's favorite mug in the cupboard and pulling down one for Percy as well. Arthur stifled a chuckle as he watched his son jump to follow Hermione's directions. Within a few minutes Percy had arrived through the floo and joined them in the kitchen where Hermione had whipped out eggs, toast, bacon and tomatoes for them. Soon Arthur and Percy headed off to work. Ron thought he and Hermione might have another moment alone once they cleaned up breakfast, but it wasn't to be as Harry and Ginny soon came downstairs. But, he took comfort in the very subtle, yet incredibly fucking sexy way Hermione ghosted her fingers over his back as she moved behind him in the kitchen while they were chatting with Harry and Gin as they ate. And, even as he and Harry set out to de-gnome the garden before it got too warm, he looked back and almost felt his knees buckle as he saw the stare she gave him with her dark eyes, and fuck if she hadn't licked and then bitten the bottom left side of her lip in the sexiest way he could have possibly imagined. He shook his head as he went out to the garden, trying to assure himself that they would have time now. Even if their spectacular timing was still utter shite.