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Sunlight was beating down on his eyelids. For a moment—for a single disorienting second—Ron thought he might be back in the Burrow again, inside his room, where the violent orange glow of the Cannons posters was slowly beckoning him out of sleep and the thrashing of the ghoul in the upstairs attic was threatening to wake the entire house.
But when he took in that first lungful of air, it was her perfume he smelled at once. Hermione’s perfume. The one he’d given her in fifth year. And he knew then, remembered with a swift punch to the stomach, that they were nowhere near home. They were in Shell Cottage, where the distant, rustling sounds were coming from the kitchen, where Fleur had already woken to make breakfast for all of her new stowaway guests.
Ron was careful to get up, barely moving at first when he turned his head to look at Hermione. Her head was pillowed on his arm, her hand on his chest, fingers splayed over his breastbone, just above where his heart was. He wondered if she could feel it beating beneath her touch, how it fluttered wildly at the sight of her, hair spilling out of the loose braid she’d hastily plaited. His arm had fallen asleep, but he didn’t want to move a single muscle, wanting to do nothing else but stare at her and wait for her to wake.
Harry would be up soon, though, and he would wonder where he was. Ron turned his head instinctively in the direction of the other guest room, straining his ears to listen for any sort of tell-tale sound, but he knew Harry would be fast asleep. He would need sleep. Just as Hermione did—just as he did, come to that. But he hadn’t dared to give in to the fatigue, however much it called to him.
All throughout the night, Hermione had held on to him, her body curved around his hip like a wounded animal seeking comfort and shelter. From time to time, he heard her whimper, felt her hot, damp tears soak through his shirt, felt her shudder uncontrollably in his arms, only to fall quiet once more when he held her to him and brought her out of the depths of her nightmares.
He had felt helpless at Malfoy Manor, but felt even more so here. Fleur had healed her of her superficial cuts, sweeping Dittany all over the parts of her body where the Crucio curse had been leveled. Ron followed with more later that night just for good measure, and found a spot that Fleur had missed: the hollow of her throat, where Bellatrix had held the knife. He watched the cut heal before his very eyes, calling upon all of his willpower to fight the tears that sprang up at the memory of Bellatrix pressing the tip of the knife into Hermione’s neck.
At remembering how close he had come to losing her.
Waves rose and crashed upon the packed sand outside. The window in Hermione’s room was closest to the sea; Ron could hear the ebb and flow of the morning tide and he knew it wouldn’t be long now before the whole house was awake. He didn’t have much more time before they’d discover that he hadn’t slept in his room, and he just didn’t have it in him to explain to everyone else where he’d been.
Heart aching, he gently eased her head off his arm and lifted himself on his elbow. He watched her for a moment, eyes following the soft rise and fall of her chest as though to remind himself that she really was here and she was safe and he was never going to let anyone or anything hurt her ever again. But he knew if he continued to look at her like this—if he stared at her any longer—he’d never be able to leave her side. He bent down to place a kiss on her temple, then reluctantly padded towards the door. His hand had just closed around the handle, when he heard her.
“Ron?”
He turned just in time to see her slide up to sitting, brushing the hair out of her face, then wrapping her arms around herself as the cool morning air slid through the gap between the windows.
“What time is it?”
“Not sure,” he said. “I think everyone’s still asleep, but... they’ll probably be up soon.”
He realised his hand was still on the handle, and suddenly, he felt guilty, wishing that her first sight of him upon waking hadn’t been of him about to leave. He had left her once before already, and he was sure the scars of that betrayal were still fresh and raw, and no amount of Dittany could erase them.
“Are you...” He swallowed hard. “How are you feeling?”
She gave him a small smile. “As good as can be expected, I suppose.” The haunted look in her eyes made him wince. Silence fell on them, then she drew her knees up to her chest and said, “You stayed.”
“Yeah,” he said. He wanted to say more, but nothing seemed adequate. Nothing could possibly express the depth of his regret, the enormity of his remorse. Nothing could ever really make up for the pain he’d caused her from walking away all those weeks ago, not even this.
Not even this.
“Does Harry know you’d gone?”
“I hope not,” he said, laughing softly. “Or I’ll have some questions to answer.”
She laughed too, a ray of light breaking through the clouds. Blimey, it felt good to hear her laugh. He didn’t think there could possibly be a sweeter sound.
He hadn’t noticed that he’d let go of the door and was leaning against it now. Her eyes flitted from the handle to his face, and she smiled, resting her chin on her knees.
“Why did you stay?” she said.
There wasn’t a trace of accusation in her voice, only a longing to understand.
“Because I couldn’t leave,” he said. “Not again.”
Slowly, he walked back to her bed, then sank down onto the edge of it, the bedsprings creaking slightly under his weight.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The words seemed so weak and so woefully insufficient, and he wasn’t even sure if she understood what he was apologising for.
That he couldn’t convince Bellatrix to take him instead of her.
That he couldn’t find a way to break the enchantments in the cellar and get out before it was too late.
That he had walked out on her and Harry, walked away as she called after him, as her throat grew hoarse from shouting his name, from begging him to come back. And for as long as he lived, he would never forget the sight of her standing in the rain, tears mingling with the water, and the anger in her eyes when he Disapparated.
Staying last night, comforting her when images of her torture rose to the surface again and again, was the least he could do. And it wouldn’t even begin to undo the hurt he himself had caused her.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. And he realised then that he was crying.
The shock of her touch pulled him out of his reverie; she’d reached forward to touch his hand, fingers twining with his.
“You came back,” she said. “You stayed. That’s what matters.”
He brought a hand up to her cheek, fanning the corner of her eye with his thumb. There was wetness beneath his touch; she was crying too. A sound next door startled both of them in the next moment. He knew Harry had woken, and he knew he’d need to go.
“You should get some food in you,” he said, not wanting to get up. “Come on... Fleur should be done with breakfast by now.”
She nodded, throwing her legs to the side of the bed and pushing herself up. She reached down with her hand to help him up as well. He took it, fingers brushing over her palm before closing over it. He ached to kiss her now, to seal the moment and tell her without words that he would never let her down again. But he knew there would be another time for that, a different place and a different set of circumstances.
For now, it was enough to have her forgiveness.