Summary: The battle is over and all Hermione wants is to wash it all off of her. A chaste Romione shower scene in which all the important bits stay covered up but everything else is stripped away.
Word count: 4253
Rating: T
Trigger warnings: none
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Voldemort was defeated and all Hermione wanted to do was take a shower.
It was an inane thought, and she felt all at once repulsed and tempted to let out a delirious laugh at how trivial it was.
But she couldn’t shake it. Not the first time she really allowed herself to sit down when the battle was over. Not when Harry found her and Ron and the three escaped the Great Hall together. Not after their visit to the Headmaster’s office.
She was covered in dirt and blood, sweat and tears, and the more she thought about it the less she could stand it. She just needed to wash it all off of her — the reminder of everything that had just happened — the death — her skin crawled with it.
Seven flights of stairs ought to have been nothing after the last several hours — months — of hell, and yet the climb to the boys’ dormitory was the exact moment her body decided to suggest to her, Mmm, perhaps we’ve had enough?
We love a good second kiss, and this one from @mertronus does NOT disappoint!
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Fic Title: Just Us Author Name: Mertronus Selected Trope: Second Kiss Brief Summary: Hermione asks Ron if he remembers their second kiss. He does…doesn’t he? Word Count: 1799 Rating: T (some language) Any Trigger Warnings: none
“Do you remember our second kiss?” Hermione asked. She was curled up in Ron’s side, her finger tracing freckles on Ron’s bare chest. Her brown curls were spread across both pillows, not that Ron minded, and the scent of her vanilla shampoo filled his senses. Beneath the twisted sheets which were slightly damp from sweat, their legs were tangled together.
Ron sighed in post-coital bliss.
“Our…second kiss?” He asked, one eyebrow raised. “Are you choosing to forget our first?”
“Of course not,” Hermione huffed. “No one ever forgets their first.”
“You almost wanted to,” Ron mumbled under his breath.
“What?”
“I said of course I remember our second kiss.” He smirked. “Best kiss of my life…in the back of that library.”
“What?!” Hermione sat up. “No it wasn’t! We never kissed in the library!”
“I-I mean in my room at the Burrow.” Ron was having a hard time keeping the smile off his face as he took on a scared expression.
Happy Saturday! I’m back with another Ron/Harry brotp moment that is full of angst. I just love writing these two and their friendship. I hope you all enjoy ❤
TW: Strong depiction of illness and discussion of death throughout the story.
Hold On
Your death is an event that happens to everyone else.
Ron once spoke those words to Harry in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, but Harry never fully realized the meaning until last night.
The small and cluttered room reeks of sterilized magical equipment. A sharp, overpowering odor somewhat akin to Muggle antiseptics wafts through Harry’s nose. It’s an all-too-familiar smell, one that disguises the presence of sickness and death, but only highlights that something is not right. An occupant lies in the single bed, which is designed to be restful but doesn’t look much more comfortable than the camp beds Harry slept on for months in the tent.
He holds Ron’s hand, squeezing it in time with the steady beating of the monitor in the background. The hand that was once sturdy, albeit a bit clumsy, is now as cold as ice and disguised by fragility.
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
Crackles of thunder rumble outside, matching the rain droplets pattering against the nearest window. A white flash of light illuminates the room as another jarring blast thumps its way to the base of Harry’s skull. The scar on his forehead burns with an intensity that may force him to lie down. No such agony has been present over his scar since—well, it’s been a long time.
He rips the round specs from his face and rubs the lenses between his tattered scarlet robes to get rid of the dirt smudges. Even with these ruddy glasses, he has horrendous eyesight. He should have foreseen the danger. All had been too quiet for many months. When Harry closes his eyes, a stark vision of a body colliding with magic flashes through his mind.
Happy Saturday! I’m back with another Ron/Harry brotp moment that is full of angst. I just love writing these two and their friendship. I hope you all enjoy ❤
TW: Strong depiction of illness and discussion of death throughout the story.
Hold On
Your death is an event that happens to everyone else.
Ron once spoke those words to Harry in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, but Harry never fully realized the meaning until last night.
The small and cluttered room reeks of sterilized magical equipment. A sharp, overpowering odor somewhat akin to Muggle antiseptics wafts through Harry’s nose. It’s an all-too-familiar smell, one that disguises the presence of sickness and death, but only highlights that something is not right. An occupant lies in the single bed, which is designed to be restful but doesn’t look much more comfortable than the camp beds Harry slept on for months in the tent.
He holds Ron’s hand, squeezing it in time with the steady beating of the monitor in the background. The hand that was once sturdy, albeit a bit clumsy, is now as cold as ice and disguised by fragility.
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
Crackles of thunder rumble outside, matching the rain droplets pattering against the nearest window. A white flash of light illuminates the room as another jarring blast thumps its way to the base of Harry’s skull. The scar on his forehead burns with an intensity that may force him to lie down. No such agony has been present over his scar since—well, it’s been a long time.
He rips the round specs from his face and rubs the lenses between his tattered scarlet robes to get rid of the dirt smudges. Even with these ruddy glasses, he has horrendous eyesight. He should have foreseen the danger. All had been too quiet for many months. When Harry closes his eyes, a stark vision of a body colliding with magic flashes through his mind.
Ron jumped. Harry ducked.
One more glance at Ron’s lifeless form forces a chill to roll down Harry’s spine. A thin white sheet has been draped over Ron’s stomach, held in place by his arms in a rigid and unnatural position at his sides. His skin is much paler than usual, if that’s even possible.
They were supposed to be investigating a crime that didn’t pose a significant threat. There wasn’t supposed to be any flamboyant magic involved. It was a standard mission, one that shouldn’t have forced them to flip out their wands and engage in battle. But their training wasn’t enough to deflect the curses spiraling towards them, and Ron spotted a danger that Harry, unfortunately, did not.
Ron jumped. Harry ducked.
His stomach churns with guilt, tempting him to flip over every contraption in this sterile room in a grief-stricken rage. Bitterness mixes in with the saliva pooling in his mouth, and Harry leans over to spit into the nearest rubbish bin.
“You look ridiculous.”
His head snaps up, and he watches Ron’s eyelids open little by little. Although he tries to lift the corner of his mouth, Ron resolves to squinting and moaning as he adjusts to the bright light in the room.
“Are you mental?” Harry jumps from his seat, pounding his hands into the cushioned surface of Ron’s bed as he snarls. “I mean, truly, have you lost your mind? What possessed you to jump in front of a blast meant for me?”
He continues to throw question after question at Ron, growling when his words are met with no response. Tension clouds the room before dissipating like the fog at the Black Lake. After several moments pass in agonizing silence, Harry’s voice rises another octave. "You had no right!”
“Well, you lost the ability to say so as soon as you allowed me into your train compartment on the day we met,” Ron croaks out, struggling and failing to sit up in his bed. He gives up and throws his head back onto his pillow. “How can you believe that I wouldn’t?”
Harry flinches and grunts as he bends over to find his chair again. A tender knot in his lower back screams at him for getting up so fast, disturbing the persistent dull ache so much that it spreads like Fiendfyre through his whole body.
“You okay?” Ron asks, his brows furrowing.
Harry balls his fists together before squeezing his hands between his thighs. His knees bounce up and down in rapid motion as he avoids Ron’s piercing gaze. He knows he should apologize for being so callous, but he can’t quell the tension welling up in his chest. Nor can he forget the events of last night.
Ron jumped. Harry ducked.
“Well, I do splinch myself on occasion.” Ron’s voice breaks the silence as he turns his cheek towards Harry and attempts a lopsided grin. “It was only a matter of time—”
“Don’t do that.”
Ron’s red-rimmed eyes darken, wiping away his humor-filled gaze. “That’s the job, isn’t it? Protect and defend?”
“Your job is to stay alive.”
Their eyes meet in an intense standoff. Ron draws his lips into a thin line for a brief moment before rasping, “We’ve been training for these missions since first year, mate.”
He’s right. Of course, Ron’s right. They’ve gone through rigorous training to avoid high-risk situations like these, haven’t they? Yet they both know that mentality is a double-edged sword, with no discernible way to foresee the unthinkable. The proof is as clear as a hippogriff in hiding. They’ve risked life and limb on countless occasions, and yesterday evening wasn’t the exception.
"You know I trust you with my life,” Harry says in earnest, leaning forward.
A rumble of laughter leaves Ron’s lips before wincing and coughing. “You better, you git.” He pauses then adds, “You have a rare gift, Potter.“
"What, Parseltongue?”
“No. Being oblivious as to what’s right in front of you.”
Harry resists the urge to manifest a massive eye roll. Now is not the time for Ron’s quips. Why isn’t he taking this matter seriously? Flailing his hand around in a dramatic fashion, Harry states, “You performed wandlessmagic.”
An image of Ron shouting Arresto Momentum as an unknown object hurls in their direction streaks through Harry’s memory. In the midst of a dark alley, he didn’t have time to react before Ron took the brunt of the blow and another bolt of red light struck him square in the chest.
Ron jumped. Harry ducked.
Visible beads of sweat drip down Ron’s forehead as strands of his ginger hair stick up from every which end, apart from the fringe plastered to the skin just above his brows. He lifts a shaky hand to swipe a single hair out of his eye. “Yeah, I suppose I did. Where would you rate it? Reckon a bit better than yours, yeah?”
He thinks he’s so clever, with his egotistical remarks and tactical mindset. Harry is seething inside. “You have a stark view on life. It’s not that simple.”
“Yet you’ve made the same choice to safeguard the magical world as I have, and you always act as if it’s the easiest decision you’ve ever made,” Ron counters, his hoarse and scratchy voice booming as loud as it can.
“Because I’ve had time to come to terms with my purpose.”
“Your purpose? What kind of bollocks is that?”
Harry tastes the copper on his tongue as he bites down hard on the flesh, fighting back his desire to be argumentative. He can’t ignore Ron’s altruistic actions in the field, and the decisions he made at his own expense. Bowing his head, Harry mumbles, “It’s supposed to be me.”
“We’ve been training for these missions since first year, mate,” Ron repeats as if he believes his words didn’t stick the first go around. “It’s supposed to be both of us. Don’t you get that?”
Harry scratches away a patch of dried blood on his forearm. Bile rises to his throat as he realizes it wasn’t his own. “Your death is an event that happens to everyone else. Your words.”
Recognition dawns in Ron’s eyes as he tilts his face up to the ceiling. “Hm. Now you see it my way. I put up a valiant fight at least?”
His chuckling bursts through Harry’s defensive walls. He always knew Ron was brave. But he’s ashamed he didn’t realize sooner how utterly fearless his best friend is in the face of danger.
“You’ll have to maintain the peace,” Ron adds, his eyelids fluttering between open and closed. “You did too much work to muck it up now, right?”
Harry drags a rough hand through his thin, jet-black hair. His heart accelerates as he processes the intent behind Ron’s words. “Why are you saying that like it’ll be just me? It’s we. We will maintain the peace together.”
“I can’t make you any promises, Potter.”
“Too bad. You must, Weasley.”
Nothing but the persistent beeping of the monitor fills the void following their declarations. Harry relishes the quiet and the space in which words aren’t needed. What more can he say? They both made different choices last night with varying consequences. It’s done, and an intense row won’t change the outcome.
“Fight back.”
Harry blinks, veering away from his thoughts. “What?”
Without lifting his arm, Ron points a single finger at him. “You taught me that.”
Harry swallows down a lump blocking his throat. “I never expected you to—it would have been okay if you didn’t.”
"How many times…do I have to tell you,” Ron counters through jagged breaths. “You do not always have to go it alone.”
His words strike Harry like a bludger to the gut. The weight on his heart could bring him to his knees. “I won’t forgive you for this.” He wipes away the tears flooding his eyes with the back of his hands. “I won’t.”
“Good.” Ron pauses, his breathing much more shallow now. “I’ll never ask for your forgiveness.”
His chest fails to rise and fall as his head lolls to one side like he’s slipping away into an endless sleep. The steady, intermittent beeping extends into an unceasing, piercing ring. A blast of icy air shudders over Harry like a dark, suffocating wave as his heart lurches in his chest. No. No.
“Come on, Ron.” He shakes Ron’s shoulders with excessive force. “Wake up. Wake up!” Harry lets go and wraps a hand around the curve of his own neck, struggling to find his breath. “If you die, I will have failed to protect you as a friend and—and as a brother.”
There is no magical elixir that can end Ron’s pain or Harry’s suffering, but they can damn well try. If all of these years together served as any proof, it’s that they have what it takes to survive.
“Hold on,” Harry urges. “Just a little bit longer.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ron’s eyes open just a fraction as a single whispered word leaves his mouth. “Okay.”
Happy Tuesday! I wrote this ficlet for the Minor Character (MC2) Romione March Challenge on the HPRomione Discord! Thank you to @el-eye-zee-aye for hosting! I had a blast writing Moaning Myrtle
Please check out the collection of works on AO3 for more
The Prefects’ bathroom is one of the happiest places in the castle—at least, in Myrtle Warren’s opinion.
But the best part?
Not just any student can have access to it, so it’s not often that she has to share its brilliance with some horrible and whiny teens. Her favorite feature is the candle-filled chandelier. In the evenings, the light casts a magnificent glow upon the white marble floors, bringing life into the room despite its emptiness.
The toilets really are the best in the castle to swirl into. It’s an honest shame that the large in-ground tub doesn’t get too many visitors. The lavender scent of the bath salts is to diefor. The only thing missing is…
Oh.
Well, perhaps it would be nice to have some company. It was dreadful having to fly from bathroom to bathroom during the recent Battle of Hogwarts, watching in horror as her perfect porcelain toilets were smashed to bits.
Myrtle casts a forlorn glance towards the door, hoping someone will walk in. As if they read her mind, the door swings open so fast that she almost doesn’t have time to hide behind one of the stalls. She likes to make a dramatic entrance, after all.
A familiar-looking boy with stark red hair tugs on the hand of a girl with frizzy brown curls, pulling her quickly into the room before shutting the door. They drop hands as soon as they think they’re alone. The girl looks away from the boy, a blush creeping up on her cheek as she bites her lip. The boy shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels.
Myrtle notices that they’re both holding towels underneath their arms. Interesting, very interesting.
“So, uh…” The boy clears his throat. “Reckon I’m not surprised that the wards are no longer up to get in here.”
The girl nods. “Yeah, this is the best place for a bath.”
“Really? So, you’ve, uh, you’ve been in here to…to do that?”
“Yes, of course. Haven’t you?”
Ah.So they were once prefects. Myrtle wants to call out and inform them that they’re not the only couple that has passed through these doors wanting an escape from the rest of the castle. Although, she can only imagine the state of the crumbling structure as it is now. She doesn’t often venture outside of her favorite places.
The ginger-haired boy coughs again, jerking his head towards the tub. “Well, it’s free now, and I could stand to rinse off this grime.” He pats his tattered clothing, and Myrtle wrinkles her nose as she takes a peek through the gap in the stall.
Oh, she can’t stand witnessing this awkwardness any longer as more seconds tick away without conversation between the couple. It’s time for Myrtle to make her presence known.
She flies upward, hovering above the bathroom stalls as she grins at the mutual shocked expressions on the teens’ faces.
“Welcome!”
“Oh!” The girl’s eyes widen, taking a step back as she places a hand over her heart. “Sorry. We didn’t realize anyone was in here, Myrtle.”
Myrtle scoffs and raises her eyebrows at the pair through her thick-rimmed glasses. “I’m not just anyone, you know. I happen to be a valuable presence to this castle. What is it youwant? I don’t suppose you both want to use the bath at the same time…”
“Well, we’re certainly not here to flood the toilets,” the ginger mumbles, but not quiet enough.
Myrtle clenches her jaw, hoping that her narrowed eyes give away a thunderous look, daring the boy to speak further. Her gaze shifts to the girl with bushy brown curls standing next to him, who looks even more recognizable than the boy.
Ohwait.
An image flashes through Myrtle’s memory of a younger Hermione Granger in the girl’s lavatory, except at the time the girl donned cat fur, ears, and a tail. The recollection dissolves Myrtle into a fit of giggles.
“Oh yeah.” She points a finger at the couple, ignoring Hermione’s crossed arms and tapping foot. “I remember you.”
“We remember you, too, Myrtle.” Hermione’s tone is stiff and formal, although her eyes never stray from Myrtle’s.
Too much time passes in silence, and Myrtle grows far too impatient. Are these two going to do or say anything, or is she going to have to do all of the work for them? She sighs, tilting her head at Hermione while breathing in through her teeth.
“I don’t mean to stare,” Hermione chews on her bottom lip, seemingly contemplating her next words. “It’s just—I might have expected to see you in the girls’ lavatory on the—”
“I can travel to any bathroom I see fit, and I like this one.”
“Oh. Of course you can travel,” Hermione quickly adds. “You probably did so through—”
“Throughwhat?”
Hermione’s face flushes. “Nevermind. It’s not important.”
A wave of violent fury washes over Myrtle as she clenches her fists at her sides, all too annoyed by the secrecy. She’s notjust a miserable ghost. There are no rules saying she has to confine herself to one toilet for the rest of her afterlife.
“What’s not important?” Myrtle circles the young couple, observing the curious way their fingers lace together as she leans closer. “The fact that I am dead?”
The boy whispers in Hermione’s ear, but not soft enough. “It’s a touchy subject.”
“Ron!”
A shriek leaves Myrtle’s lips as she flies in front of this boy’s face until they’re nose to freckled nose—oh yes, of course he’s another Weasley, how could she forget? “Do you always bug people? Bug bug bug?” She jabs her index finger through his stomach several times, intent on poking him.
Myrtle will not stand for these pithy insults.
“Hey, stop that!” Ron jumps away, his eyes growing wide at her outburst.
Although Myrtle has half a mind to open up all of the taps in the room—imaginethe amount of bubbles—she doesn’t want to do something that would be considered in typical Myrtle fashion. She’s tired of reflecting on her own dramatic death and could use a new source of entertainment.
These two have been the center of massive gossip about the castle over the years, and she can’t believe she didn’t recognize them right away. In fact, she can recall a young, pretty girl named Lavender frequently moaning about her dormmate, Hermione, so much so that Myrtle started to avoid the poor, jealous girl whenever she would walk in looking for a chat.
A question comes to mind, spilling out of Myrtle’s mouth without a second thought. “Are you two snogging now?”
Ron’s face turns a distinct shade of red that matches his vibrant hair, a clear indicator that the topic of conversation has shifted into uncomfortable, or perhaps unfamiliar, territory.
“That’s personal, Myrtle,” Hermione admonishes.
Fine.She was hoping for some new gossip, but she shouldn’t be surprised that the pair continue to remain tight-lipped. Perhaps it would be best to give the couple some privacy. Believe it or not, Myrtle doesn’t relish in other people’s misery. She is just about to declare as such when the door swings open again, revealing her favorite boy with glasses and a jagged scar on his forehead, along with another ginger-haired girl.
"What are you guys doing here?” Harry Potter inquires, his eyes slowly darting from Ron and Hermione to Myrtle’s ghostly presence hovering in the background.
“Harry! You survived.“ Although pleased to see him, Myrtle can’t help but let her mouth falter into a pout. "I was going to share my toilet with you.”
“Er, sorry to disappoint, Myrtle.”
"Us?” Ron asks, flicking a finger in his friend’s direction. “What about you and Ginny?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Myrtle floats between the two couples, sniggering. “Harry wants to take a bubble bath.”
“Why did she just wink at you?” Ginny demands, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Oh, it’s, uh—it’s nothing, Gin.“ Harry shifts from side to side, avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room. "Honestly.”
“Well, I bloody hope so. She’s a ghost.”
Myrtle lets out a raucous wail. “I. Am. A. Person. With feelings!”
With an air of finality, she flies into a toilet stall and the door whips shut behind her with a slamming force. Myrtle’s shoulders begin to tremble along with the pace of her sniffling. She must look dreadfully unattractive, but she can’t seem to stop crying.
“Of course you are, Myrtle,” Harry’s soothing voice echoes from outside the barrier she’s created. Even though she knows he’s being comforting out of fear of upsetting her further, she still appreciates the attention. He is the Chosen One who just defeated the wizard responsible for her death. She should be grateful, shouldn’t she?
“Harry, you really are a golden egg.” Myrtle opens the stall door to face the couples, resisting the urge to wink at her favorite boy again. She can’t be seen as a desperate flirt. “And so handsome…”
Drat, that one slipped out.
“He’s a bloody martyr, this one,” Ron grumbles, and Hermione nudges him in the ribs.
A frown forms on Myrtle’s face. It’s quite bothersome how much tension is in the air between the four in the room. They did just complete a grim mission to take out the most powerful dark wizard of all time, who has spent years wreaking more havoc on Hogwarts than the basilisk that killed her. Myrtle is sure that the defeat was gruesome and dramatic and she wants all of the details.
“I always knew you could do it, Harry. So, tell me. What was it like destroying a part of your own soul?”
She heard the rumors, of course.
Although Myrtle hopes he’ll indulge her, Harry only winces. “Too soon.”
She purses her lips, growing irritated at the audacity of these couples invading her perfect, wet hideout, without even offering any new information.
“Fine. I suppose I’ll go. Clearly I’m not welcomed in my own bathroom.” Myrtle chokes back a fresh batch of tears, her thoughts drifting to the hard truth of not being the most popular supernatural being in the castle.
What’s so special about a nearly headless ghost, anyway?
“No need to leave, Myrtle. Maybe we should go to the dorms, Harry.” Ginny tugs on his sleeve. “I’m sure the showers will be free there.”
“Right.”
“So you wereplanning to shower together?” Ron glares at the pair.
Ginny snorts. “What was it you were planning to do with Hermione, dear brother?”
A high-pitched squeak leaves Ron’s lips. “That’s not important.”
“Oh, feel free to stay. All of you!” Myrtle drifts between Ron and Harry, a thrilling shiver running up and down her spine from her close proximity to these two handsome boys. “You can pretend I’m not here. I’ll close my eyes!”
“Er, thanks, Myrtle,” Ron moves away from her. “Maybe a cleansing charm will do the trick, actually.”
“No, no. Stay! I can flood this bathroom, if you want me to? That way no one bothers you for a bit.”
Four sets of eyes form a blank stare in her direction, and it doesn’t seem like Myrtle’s idea is targeting the right audience. Maybe she is just a ghoulish distraction, maybe the second floor girl’s bathroom is a better place for her…
“I wish I could find a love like you four have.” Myrtle bows her head, her shoulders sagging in defeat.
“We shouldn’t have encroached on your space.” Hermione offers a sympathetic smile. “We’re sorry, Myrtle. You belong here just as much as anyone else.”
The validation is simple, but it’s enough to make Myrtle’s heart swell with warmth that’s been missing for a very long time.
She twirls her hair between her fingers with a toothy grin plastered to her face. “Well, it’s nice to have visitors sometimes. And you’re always welcome in the girl’s bathroom!”
Hermione leans into Ron as he smiles down at her, wrapping an arm around her waist. Harry mirrors his best friend’s actions, intertwining his fingers with Ginny’s.
Ah, young love.
“Thanks, Myrtle!” With a final wave, the four turn to exit the room. Myrtle’s stomach drops, not yet ready for the loss of her latest companions.
"Oh, one more thing.”
They all face Myrtle again with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension on their faces.
The next set of words that tumble out of Myrtle’s mouth are perhaps the most earnest words she’s ever spoken. “Thank you. Truly.”
Her gaze shifts to Harry, whose eyes soften as he takes in the meaning behind her gratitude.
Thank you for defeating him.
For a simple moment in time, her animosity towards humans grows weaker as her adoration for them shines through.
Maybe they’re not all as unpleasant as Olive Hornby.
Title: Only the Beginning Author:adenei Trope: Second Kiss Brief Summary: Everyone’s hurting in the aftermath of the battle, but perhaps Ron is hurting the most. Hermione does her best to comfort him as she grapples with what comes next. Word Count:1012 Rating:T TW: Mentions of death, blood, and war. A/N: Inspired by this fanart
Thank you Be11a for putting this together!
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I’m obsessed with the thought of you here in my bed I’m in love with the back of your head And the way you pull me closer No regrets, no clothes, no money, no friends Nobody to say it won’t last Will you love me ‘til I’m older?
~Older [Lea Heart]
Alive.
The word replays over and over in Hermione’s mind as she takes in the hollowed face staring back at her. She’s a shell of her former self—cheekbones so severe they may cut straight through her skin and eyes sunken in from how much weight she’s lost on the run. Even her hair is thin and stringy; damp ringlets cling to her neck and shoulders.
Despite washing off all the dirt, grime, and blood, she doesn’t feel clean. Death surrounds her and exhaustion seeps into her bones. She needs to move, but it’s impossible to pry herself away from the entrancing effect her reflection has.
That is, until the door to the boy’s bathroom creaks open. Hermione turns to see Harry closing the door behind him.
“Alright, Hermione?”
She nods and her voice is hoarse when she speaks. “Just finishing up.”
“Right. I’m going to shower. Ron’s out there.” He gestures to the door, answering her question before she can ask.
Let us know how much you LOVE this second kiss from CowahBull!
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Fic Title: Bedknobs and Breadcrusts
Author Name:CowahBull
Selected Trope: Second Kiss
Brief Summary: The War is over. Voldemort is dead. And Hermione still doesn’t like the crust on her sandwiches.
Word Count:989
Rating:G
Any Trigger Warnings:None
Ron crawled into his four-poster bed more exhausted than he could ever remember. They won. The war was over. Voldemort was dead. Relief rushed over him as he pulled the blankets up over himself and fell fast asleep.
He, Harry, and Hermione slept in the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory until the sun rose once again through the window in the corner. Ron opened the curtains to his bed to see a small tray of sandwiches and pumpkin juice resting on the bedside table. “Ugh, corned beef,” he said to himself, shaking his head as he took his first bite. “Mum must have sent these up.” He turned his attention to the bed to his left and saw a bushy brown head emerge from behind the curtains. A smile spread across his face as he locked eyes with Hermione and he held out the tray of food to her. Hermione moved to sit next to him on the edge of his bed and took one happily as they ate together.
