Chapter Text
Relief and heaviness rested on the shoulders of hundreds of witches and wizards who had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. They all felt a strange emptiness. It was so odd to know that peace had finally arrived—joy, yes, but a hollow joy, when thinking of all the loved ones who had fallen.
Harry Potter had fled from questions and a few reporters who had begun to arrive. Too exhausted, he climbed up to what used to be his room in Gryffindor Tower, half in ruins and covered in dust, but it was the closest thing to a refuge he could imagine.
Hermione helped Madam Pomfrey with the gravely wounded until her body begged for rest. She climbed the spiral staircase Harry had taken hours earlier, but toward the girls' wing. She entered and locked the door—she didn’t want anyone asking her questions she wasn’t ready to answer. She went to the small student bathroom each room had; the tiny shower that had seen her grow up felt comforting.
She lost herself under the warm water until knocks on the door brought her back to reality. Couldn’t she have just one peaceful moment?
“Who is it?” she tried to sound kind—after all, everyone was just as exhausted and overwhelmed as she was.
“Ron.” Ronald… the kiss, the escape, the death, Fred… All the thoughts collided in her mind before she opened the door. She didn’t pay much attention to the fact that she was only wearing a towel. They had traveled together for months and sometimes privacy was a luxury.
Ron looked just as he had during the battle—clothes caked with dirt and blood, his blue eyes ringed in red, signs of the endless crying over his brother and the lack of sleep.
“How are you?” Ron didn’t answer.
“That was a pretty stupid question, sorry. Can I do something to make you feel better? Maybe tea? Do you want to eat something? I can—”
Ron kissed her. But it wasn’t like the kiss full of euphoria they had shared during the battle. No. It was a different kiss, one full of fury and pain. Hermione tried to respond, to soften the edges—she knew where this was going.
Sex didn’t scare her—after all, she was clear about her feelings for Ron. The problem was what he felt for her. He had to care about her, even if it wasn’t love. He cared. Seven years as friends and a kiss between them—maybe she had started that kiss, but he had responded.
Ron kissed her with anxiety, anger, tears. Ron needed her, was hurting too much, and if she could do something to make him feel better, she would. That’s how love worked.
She took off his jacket, torn at the sleeve, and his shirt. A shy blush covered her cheeks when Ron laid her down on the bed and pulled away the towel, leaving her completely exposed to him. She wouldn't admit how guilty she felt for briefly comparing her body to Lavender’s—especially when they still didn’t know if the girl would survive the attack.
Ron seemed detached from her thoughts, her feelings—almost detached from her. He looked at her for a moment and went back to what he was doing, lost in himself. She couldn’t stop what was happening, and she couldn’t pretend to understand the pain he was in. She had lost her parents, but always with the hope of finding them again—a light in the dark that Ron didn’t have. For Ron, everything seemed dark, without light. And Hermione, more than anyone, knew how hard it was for him to find light in dark moments.
Neither of them spoke. Ron took off his dirty trousers, and without resistance from her, her virginity was undone in a thread of blood and a few lonely tears. He didn’t notice—he kept thrusting until he finished inside her. Mechanical, instinctive, and cold.
He lay down beside Hermione and wrapped her in his arms possessively, falling asleep. Cold, Hermione repeated in her mind. It reminded her of the sadness the dementors brought. She looked at him. Love wasn’t supposed to feel like this, but the idea that Ron didn’t love her terrified her. The mere thought made her cry. She had nothing left—her family, her innocence, her light—it all seemed to have gone out.
It wasn’t that virginity held some great value for her. She’d read enough to know it was just another moment in life. But after so much loneliness, she had longed for this to be different. For Ron to be different.
The sun came through the window with broken panes. Ron felt the warmth on his face and, after a night of sleep he needed as much as oxygen, he woke up. His first thought was Fred—the pain that burned in his chest every time he breathed. He felt weight on his arm and turned to see Hermione sleeping, frowning and mumbling in her sleep. He lifted the sheet and saw blood on the blanket. Had he become one of those men he used to protect Ginny from? Had he become one of those despicable creatures who took advantage of younger girls after parties? Was he that?
Hermione woke up shortly after, confused and unsure how Ron would react.
“I’m so sorry, Hermione. I never thought I could hurt you like that.”
“You mean the blood? Most women bleed the first time. It’s not a big deal. I’ll survive.”
“You know what I mean. I forced you into something you didn’t want.”
“Ron, you didn’t force me. I’ve wanted this to happen for a long time—maybe not like this, not with so much pain involved—but it happened and I accept that.”
“I’m sorry I ruined your first time.” Ron felt unworthy, as he always had—but now multiplied by a thousand.
“It’s not that important. Not as important as with whom. Maybe it was a bit rough, but if you care about me—though you haven’t said it, and I understand if you don’t—you don’t have to pretend just because of what happened or because you know I love you and you shouldn’t—”
He kissed her.
“Bloody hell, Hermione, you talk too much.” He wanted to say it, to confess it, but he was a coward. He didn’t even understand why he was in Gryffindor in the first place. “Hermione, I care about you.”
“And I care about you, Ronald,” Hermione said before kissing him. “This—you and me, us—it can be something, if you want it to be.”
“I’d love that,” he said, caressing her. Amid the cold and pain, the warmth of Hermione’s smile spread, the softness of her skin.
“You’re beautiful. I’m sorry I didn’t say it last night, but you are. And this time, not as a surprise.”
“How do you feel?” Ron exhaled the breath that burned in his lungs, realizing what she meant.
“As best I can. That’s what we all do, right? Fred knew he wanted to fight, and he wouldn’t want to see us like this. Ginny says we have to be strong—for Mum, for George—but I don’t know how strong I can be, Hermione.”
“You’re stronger than you think, Ronald. You always have been.” Hermione kissed him, more gently and sweetly.
“Last night, you interrupted my shower. Want to finish it?”
“Together?”
“There’s too much loneliness out there not to be.”