After Harry had made the trek up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, mumbling something about a sandwich, Ron and Hermione sat on the sofa nearest the fireplace. They stared into the empty grate, not looking at one another, not saying anything. It could have been seconds or hours or minutes that this continued for all they knew, but there was something soothing in this comfortable silence, with each kept company by their thoughts and simple proximity.

At last, though, someone started a long overdue conversation, and, predictably enough, it was Hermione. “We should talk about, you know… earlier.” She blushed at the mention of their kiss shared in the heat of battle — with Harry watching, no less.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Ron said, scratching the back of his head. He studied the wand in his hands as if he had never seen it before, since he couldn’t quite bring his gaze up far enough to look Hermione in the eye. “Listen, if you want to forget the whole thing and—“

“Don’t be thick,” she snapped, probably a bit more sharply than she had meant to, and she saw him cringe just a little. Softening her voice, she amended, “What I mean is that I don’t want to forget it. I couldn’t if I tried.”

Ron gave her a sideways glance at his first genuine ray of hope. There had always been a gap between them, some yawning disconnect between the palpable attraction between them and the way they actually acted toward one another. When she had kissed him for — of all the bizarre things — wanting to save the elves, it seemed like they had made genuine progress. That didn’t mean, however, that there still wasn’t a long way to go.

“I’m sorry I left,” he said. He’d apologised dozens of times, but it had always been to both Hermione and Harry, never to her alone.

“You’ve said that already, and I said I understood.”

“But I never said it to you, Hermione. Before, it was like I was saying it to Harry, because he is my best mate and all, but you’re… well, I don’t know exactly what you are.” He could have kicked himself for his gross lack of tact, but Hermione, knowing him as well as she did, didn’t seem to take offence. In fact, she seemed amused by his predicament, which was evidenced by light chuckling. “What?”

Her giggling nearing full-blown laughter, Hermione said between gasps for air, “That just reminded me of our fourth-year when you tried to ask me to the ball. Y—you said, ‘Hermione, you’re a girl.’ It just…”

Ron could not help but join in the amusement at the expense of his fourteen-year-old self. He hadn’t truly realised it then, but he’d always wanted to ask her first. Just never had the proper nerve was all. Well, that and he was about ninety-nine per cent certain that she would have turned him down even quicker than Fleur had. How was he supposed to know that she—

No, he should have known. The signs were there and always had been. While normal kids pulled pigtails and made faces at their secret crushes, Hermione had belittled his wit. That was her way, and it had taken him seven effing years to figure it out. Harry had probably known right away, and that just made it worse.

The laughter had come and gone, and Ron barely noticed its passing. Every mixed signal, every missed opportunity, every meaningful moment had come crashing in on him like a tidal wave.  Had it really been that long? When had Ronald Bilius Weasley fallen for Hermione—

“What’s your middle name?” he asked suddenly, and he was wholly ashamed that he didn’t know.

Looking at him strangely, she said, “Jean.”

Jean. It sounded familiar, which meant that she had told him at some point and he’d forgotten. Whereas he would have brushed off such a lapse before, it now made him sick. How could he really care about her that much and not be bothered to remember her middle name? He knew Harry’s middle name, but not the woman he loved.

He loved her. Ronald Bilius Weasley loved Hermione JEAN Granger. He had for quite a while, and he had a feeling that he would for a long time after that. And the most amazing part was that, after all that he had said and done to her in the past to hurt her, she still managed to care about him in some capacity. What that was, he didn’t know, but for the moment, it was enough. It was enough for him to say something that he had needed to say for weeks. “I need to tell you something, and no matter what, I need you to hear me out. You know I’m not good at this, so please don’t go mental and try to finish my sentences for me.”

“Now wait a—“

“And there it is. Please, Hermione, for once in your life, could you just let me talk? I really need to do this.”

Hermione was oddly inscrutable, but Ron took it as a sign that she was willing to do what he had asked, even though it would be damned near painful to shut up for a minute or two.

“I need to tell you why I left.”

“But you—“

Shaking his head, Ron cut her off. “I know what I said. I lied. I said that the Horcrux made me do it, but that isn’t true. I was going to leave anyway.”

She looked almost sick, but Ron knew that, if anything was ever going to go forward between them, the air had to be cleared, the laundry aired, the — well, he needed to tell her the truth. “I truly thought that you were in love with Harry and had been for years, and I couldn’t stand to watch you do everything for him and treat me like a stupid troll that you got stuck with.”

‘You…you really thought that? You really thought so little of me that I would — Ron, how could you not know?” Hermione seemed to be in shock and disbelief that he had said what he did, and he didn’t blame her. He was far more disgusted with himself than she was with him.

His line of sight drilling straight at his hands, which had clenched into fists to cope with the nerves, Ron said, “And I hate myself for it. You and Harry have been almost closer than family for years, and the first sign of trouble, I got all paranoid and think you two are going to leave me behind. It’s bloody terrifying, and I panicked.” The admission overwhelming, he rubbed his face with his still-fisted hands, hoping to scour away some of the lingering shame that stained his cheeks. He wasn’t sure if that would ever leave him, though, whether she could ever forgive him or not. “I know you said that it could never be enough, but I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Ron, I—“

“I know I have no right to ask you to forgive me, so I’m not going to. I just need to say that—“ He never got a chance to finish as Hermione kissed him with every bit of the passion that she had in the corridor earlier. His deepest, darkest secret had been revealed, and she didn’t hate him.

He couldn’t find the words to string together with the shreds of breath that she had left him with. Hermione got him. No one had ever really got him before. There was no doubt anymore, no question. Ron truly did love her, and for once in his ruddy life, he was going to say so. “Love you, Hermione. Guess I always have.”

Smiling that secret smile that she did when she knew something he didn’t, Hermione said, “Oh, I know.” Snuggling into his side and sighing contentedly, she reiterated, “I know.”

Just days before, Ron might have been afraid that she didn’t love him back, since she hadn’t actually said it, but not that day. She did, and he was sure of it. Never again would he let that sort of doubt plague him again, because damn it all, he was Ron effing Weasley, slayer of Horcruxes and champion of the elves!

Really, what wasn’t to love?