(no subject)
Who: Ron Weasley with an appearance by Hermione
Where: Still at the safe house in Hoy, Orkney Islands
When: 21st March 2002, morning
Status: Complete
When Ron awoke, it was slow and labourous. He was never one of those "jump out of bed and seize the day" sort of people. No, waking up came in degrees for Ron and those closest to him knew it. Want him up and functioning by nine? Then you'd better set the alarm for half-seven and hope for a true miracle.
Today, however, he surfaced from the deep waters of slumber quicker than usual.
He was warm, for one thing. Almost too warm he noticed while wriggling out from under the blanket cocoon that covered his head as well as his lanky frame. Dappled sunlight made him squint; the floor he'd spent the night on turned uncomfortable as body and brain dialed themselves back into coherency.
You've spent the night locked behind the wards, remember? his inner voice reminded him as he rubbed away the crusty sleep gunk, Hermione kept watch and read to you until...
The thought of Hermione made him start. A sinking feeling settled into his gut when his hand brushed against a much softer, more yielding form now half-hidden under the blanket he'd thrown off only scant moments before.
He wouldn't look down. He couldn't look down for fear of what he might find. What if the potion had worn off? What if he'd somehow broken the wards and savaged Hermione? Nevermind that he (and his surroundings) were spotlessly clean, his empty belly already grumbling for breakfast - both signs that he'd spent the duration of his transformation doing anything but what he imagined.
Such wild thoughts were silenced when, to his relief, there was a shifting of the blanket. A soft sigh. A murmured call for Crookshanks, long dead and gone to dust.
Sitting back on his heels, Ron watched her for a few minutes. Watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, fingers itching to touch her but knowing it might not be welcomed if she caught him in the act. Things were different now, weren't they? Decisions had been made, lines drawn, and friendship was all that would be allowed to flourish. He'd decided it, she'd gone along with it rather than let him go. And then she'd sat with him the whole night. Like he knew, deep down, that she would. Like a friend would.
Nothing ends without beginning something else.
Where: Still at the safe house in Hoy, Orkney Islands
When: 21st March 2002, morning
Status: Complete
When Ron awoke, it was slow and labourous. He was never one of those "jump out of bed and seize the day" sort of people. No, waking up came in degrees for Ron and those closest to him knew it. Want him up and functioning by nine? Then you'd better set the alarm for half-seven and hope for a true miracle.
Today, however, he surfaced from the deep waters of slumber quicker than usual.
He was warm, for one thing. Almost too warm he noticed while wriggling out from under the blanket cocoon that covered his head as well as his lanky frame. Dappled sunlight made him squint; the floor he'd spent the night on turned uncomfortable as body and brain dialed themselves back into coherency.
You've spent the night locked behind the wards, remember? his inner voice reminded him as he rubbed away the crusty sleep gunk, Hermione kept watch and read to you until...
The thought of Hermione made him start. A sinking feeling settled into his gut when his hand brushed against a much softer, more yielding form now half-hidden under the blanket he'd thrown off only scant moments before.
He wouldn't look down. He couldn't look down for fear of what he might find. What if the potion had worn off? What if he'd somehow broken the wards and savaged Hermione? Nevermind that he (and his surroundings) were spotlessly clean, his empty belly already grumbling for breakfast - both signs that he'd spent the duration of his transformation doing anything but what he imagined.
Such wild thoughts were silenced when, to his relief, there was a shifting of the blanket. A soft sigh. A murmured call for Crookshanks, long dead and gone to dust.
Sitting back on his heels, Ron watched her for a few minutes. Watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, fingers itching to touch her but knowing it might not be welcomed if she caught him in the act. Things were different now, weren't they? Decisions had been made, lines drawn, and friendship was all that would be allowed to flourish. He'd decided it, she'd gone along with it rather than let him go. And then she'd sat with him the whole night. Like he knew, deep down, that she would. Like a friend would.
Nothing ends without beginning something else.