someday when i stop loving you
It wasn’t often Ron was at a loss for words. It wasn’t often he didn’t have a quick quip on hand for any occasion. It wasn’t often he didn’t belt out whatever was on his mind and the consequences be damned. So, on the rare occurrence that words failed him, he stopped to think. It wasn’t something he was proud of or would admit willingly, but it was the truth. As he stretched out next to the fire, pretending to be wrapped up in a game of solo Wizard’s Chess, he allowed himself to analyze. He grinned at Hermione dozing in the overstuffed armchair to his left.
It had been two years since Hermione had pressed her lips to his at Hogwarts. It was the heat of battle, skin flushed, pulse racing, adrenaline coursing. Out of all the things that happened: Harry sacrificing himself, Voldemort defeated, Fred dying, the hopelessness of it all; the way she gripped the hair at the nape of his neck while her lips brushed his was what he remembered the most. It had given him a reason to fight. It ignited a fire in him he had never felt before. Life had always been worth living; the unclear future always tried his patience. He needed to know; had to know how it ended. But with a clumsy kiss, teeth and all, the future suddenly became clearer.
He remembered the feeling of her hand, small and fragile, in his as Voldemort announced that Potter was dead. If it was over, if they were all going to die, or worse, he would go down with her hand in his. He wouldn’t let go until he was forced. It had taken years for them to get to this point. Better late, than never. He wanted to kiss her again, but once would be enough if they were to die that night.
He shuddered and moved his knight, watching as it destroyed a pawn with a spin. He didn’t like to go back to those feelings; that night. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. It had taken both him and Harry months to remember that; to live by it. He glanced back at Hermione; the book in her hands, drooping further down in her lap now. She had been patient with him. She had brought him back. He quickly picked up the Chess set (surprisingly, in the muggle way, wanting a few more moments alone with himself). As he set it back in its proper place (he didn’t want Hermione scolding him in the morning), he crossed to that overstuffed armchair. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead; which had been warmed by the dwindling fire. He wouldn’t have dared to do this if she were awake (he sometimes hated how much he loved her). He gently took the book from her before it hit the ground, placing it on the table beside the chair. He readjusted the blanket, studying how the firelight flickered against her cheeks.
Ron steadied himself to pick her up and carry her to their bed, but paused. She looked peaceful, innocent even. He didn’t have the heart to move her and wake her by accident. Instead, he sunk down to the carpet, the fire now warming his toes. He leaned back against that overstuffed armchair that Hermione loved so much and snaked his hand up behind his head until his fingers found hers. Two years later and his stomach still lurched as it did the very first time she touched him. He canted his head back to rest on the arm of the chair. He felt his eyelids droop and slid them closed. Yes, it wasn’t often Ron was at a loss for words, but sometimes it was worth the wait.
It had been two years since Hermione had pressed her lips to his at Hogwarts. It was the heat of battle, skin flushed, pulse racing, adrenaline coursing. Out of all the things that happened: Harry sacrificing himself, Voldemort defeated, Fred dying, the hopelessness of it all; the way she gripped the hair at the nape of his neck while her lips brushed his was what he remembered the most. It had given him a reason to fight. It ignited a fire in him he had never felt before. Life had always been worth living; the unclear future always tried his patience. He needed to know; had to know how it ended. But with a clumsy kiss, teeth and all, the future suddenly became clearer.
He remembered the feeling of her hand, small and fragile, in his as Voldemort announced that Potter was dead. If it was over, if they were all going to die, or worse, he would go down with her hand in his. He wouldn’t let go until he was forced. It had taken years for them to get to this point. Better late, than never. He wanted to kiss her again, but once would be enough if they were to die that night.
He shuddered and moved his knight, watching as it destroyed a pawn with a spin. He didn’t like to go back to those feelings; that night. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. It had taken both him and Harry months to remember that; to live by it. He glanced back at Hermione; the book in her hands, drooping further down in her lap now. She had been patient with him. She had brought him back. He quickly picked up the Chess set (surprisingly, in the muggle way, wanting a few more moments alone with himself). As he set it back in its proper place (he didn’t want Hermione scolding him in the morning), he crossed to that overstuffed armchair. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead; which had been warmed by the dwindling fire. He wouldn’t have dared to do this if she were awake (he sometimes hated how much he loved her). He gently took the book from her before it hit the ground, placing it on the table beside the chair. He readjusted the blanket, studying how the firelight flickered against her cheeks.
Ron steadied himself to pick her up and carry her to their bed, but paused. She looked peaceful, innocent even. He didn’t have the heart to move her and wake her by accident. Instead, he sunk down to the carpet, the fire now warming his toes. He leaned back against that overstuffed armchair that Hermione loved so much and snaked his hand up behind his head until his fingers found hers. Two years later and his stomach still lurched as it did the very first time she touched him. He canted his head back to rest on the arm of the chair. He felt his eyelids droop and slid them closed. Yes, it wasn’t often Ron was at a loss for words, but sometimes it was worth the wait.