“Hello?”
They had spent the afternoon explaining to her parents what had happened, and now they had given them a moment to process. Ron followed her upstairs. She had not asked him to help her prepare the house for her parents’ return, but then again she did not need to; he knew, instinctively, that it was something she did not want to face alone. He had wandered through every room, clearing away dust, but had avoided hers, not wanting to crowd her. But she opened the door for him now, and they both stepped inside the door labeled “HERMIONE”.
It was spacious, tidy, and blue; all things his room at the Burrow was not. The curtains were drawn back but the day was cloudy, casting her books (which, of course, were many) in a dull grey light. She sat delicately on the bed, which creaked from lack of use, and he fell into place beside her.
They did not speak. After a few moments she turned her face into his chest, and he felt her body shake with exhaustion and tears.Behind her head was a pinboard, and on it she had hung up various knick knacks; a list of books he recognised as the required readings for a Hogwarts 7th year, which she had kept for some unknown reason; a sheet that seemed to be charting the growth of her cat; a SPEW badge; a postcard of Nice; and, quite alone on the right hand side, a picture of the three of them, smiling in their Hogwarts robes. All broken and put back together again; all Chosen Ones.
There was another picture next to it - a picture of Ron. It had been taken the summer they had cleaned out Grimmauld Place, for he was covered in dust and dirt, sitting in Sirius’ kitchen with a grin on his face. She had not made the picture move, and so it remained frozen, like a Muggle portrait, never changing - a moment, frozen in time. The picture itself was bent and faded, and he realised in a moment of sudden clarity that she had taken the picture with her, in the little beaded bag, when she had last left this room over a year ago, only to pin it back up when they had arrived that morning.
The sun may have risen and set a hundred times around them, but they took no notice, lost in their memories and lost in each other. The blue of her walls reminded him of the flames she would make when they were young, bright little things she kept in jars and carried around to keep warm. The cold had never seemed to be able to take hold of Hermione.
His eyes darted back to the picture of himself, entirely still.
She had not unpacked anything else.
Rupert/Emma at the Deathly Hallows Part 2 Premiere
