Hermione had always liked the autumn. She liked the colours, the way the air became crisp on sunny days, the way the earth smelled after a heavy rain, and the way her breath became visible in the cold. She liked the warmer clothes, the bundling up with hot chocolate and a good book, the walking on days like today, wading through the yellows and the reds of the season. She had liked the autumn at her home, at her grandmother’s home, at Hogwarts, and once when she was a little girl even in Berlin. So far she loved the autumn at the Burrow.
She hadn’t spent autumn at the Burrow before. Christmas – yes. Summer – yes. Autumn – not so far. But this year she did, celebrating the death of Voldemort by taking it easy in the company of Harry and the entire Weasley clan. Somehow the Burrow seemed more alive than it ever had before. It had been a beautiful autumn so far – and today was no exception. The air was cool and crisp, the sun was shining and bathing everything in light – making the leaves and trees and Weasleys shine like gold or copper. Hermione smiled. She had always favoured the red of autumn. The autumn at the Burrow seemed redder than any place else.
Hermione jumped and spun around instantly when she heard a rustling sound behind her, some instincts too hard to break after months and years of wars and dangers. She smiled when the only thing she found to look at was a ball of ginger fur jumping in and out of the big piles of dry leaves scattered around the lawn, the colour of Crookshank’s fur so close to the colours of the leaves that he nearly became invisible when in one of the piles.
She had bought him because of that fur. Because he reminded her of autumn, of dry leaves and days like today. That and the fact that when he curled up next to her at night, hidden by the quilts of the bed, she could imagine that it was another set of ginger curls that stuck up from beneath the covers.
With a sigh Hermione turned her back to the cat and started walking towards the cluster of trees at the top of the hill. Sometimes she did wish that they would have found time for more than fighting during the last year. Yet fighting seemed to be the one thing they had done. Fighting Voldemort to save the world, fighting Harry to keep him from taking risks that would pay little and cost too much – fighting each other over stupid things like who snogged whom when and who sent letters to old flames or ball-dates. Seeing Viktor again in Romania hadn’t helped matters either. Sometimes she thought that they really shouldn’t open their mouths around each other. One of them always seemed to screw up when they did.
She knew there was something there. She’d known that since their fourth year. Ron had taken a lot longer to figure it out. Still she was sure he knew it too. They just didn’t seem to make it past the stress and the jealousy and the fact that they both had mouths too big for their own good.
She didn’t hear him when he arrived. War had taught him to move quietly even amongst the dry leaves of the season. It was a skill she had acquired herself without even noticing it. While he had continued to move quietly even months after Voldemort’s defeat, however, never thinking about how he moved or why he did it, she rebelled by making conscious efforts to move as noisily as she could. He, ending up scaring his mother by suddenly appearing behind her, she, warning the twins about her presence long before they could see her, making her a good target for all kinds of jokes and pranks. Today, she was wading through the leaves where they were highest, enjoying the sound they made when they brushed against her legs and each other.
He didn’t scare her when he suddenly appeared by her side. Nor did he surprise her. She didn’t need to hear him to know he was close. She learned to sense his presence without hearing or seeing him long ago. She knew when he was in the same room. She knew when he was watching her from behind. She knew without looking that he was watching her now, wondering what to say without ending up saying something he shouldn’t.
Looking up at the red leaves of the trees, Hermione smiled as she inhaled the scent of the season. The leaves on the trees were glowing as the sun shone through them, the landscape in front of them basking in the golden light. Sitting down on the ground, she petted the ground next to her, asking him to do the same.
He didn’t make a sound as he sat down, but without looking she knew he was still watching her. She could feel the warmth radiating from his hand, close but not yet touching. Turning her head to watch him she noticed that he wasn’t wearing anything over his shirt. She smiled. It never seized to amaze her that he never seemed cold. It was as if he required a secret way of always staying warm no matter the weather or clothing. With nostalgia, she remembered a time when he needed her to create bluebell flames to keep him warm. It seemed a lifetime ago.
They didn’t move. They didn’t speak. Too afraid of messing things up. Too concerned with keeping the moment as it was. Hermione didn’t know how long they sat like that. Five minutes – an hour, who cared? As long as they stayed like this, the world seemed right and good and meaningful. Ron’s hand still radiated heat. Hermione’s was colder, and so she moved.
Not much. Not enough to break whatever magic that held them there. Just enough to cover his hand with hers. Just enough to feel the heat on her skin. Tangible, real, a concrete piece of evidence that proved to her that he was here – that they were both still here. He didn’t shy away or move his hand or even try to touch hers back. He just smiled slightly, a twitch in the corner of his mouth the only thing showing his nervousness. As he leaned in closer, his face ever closer to hers, Hermione was the one not moving or shying away. Watching the ginger curls of his hair glowing in the soon setting sun as his face came closer, she knew why some seasons were better than others.