Ron had left. After their fight, after the shouting and the slammed doors, he packed his things and left for another country, chasing something he couldn't even name.

Before he boarded the train, he grabbed your arm.

—"Take care of her, yeah?"

You nodded. Of course you would.

At first, it was awkward.

You and Hermione weren't exactly strangers—you’d fought battles together, shared the same war—but living together was different. It was early mornings bumping into each other in the kitchen, quiet evenings reading separate books in the same room, silent understanding stitched into every glance.

Ron wrote to her. Every day. Letters stuffed into the mailbox, apologies, promises, words heavy with regret.

She read them all. But slowly, she stopped answering.

You noticed the small things first: how she lingered in the living room instead of locking herself away in her room, how she laughed more at your terrible jokes, how her eyes softened when she caught you cooking dinner because she’d forgotten to eat.

You didn't plan it. Neither did she.

It was in the way she curled up beside you on the couch one night, falling asleep with her head on your shoulder. It was in the way your hand stayed at the small of her back a little longer than necessary when you passed her in the hallway.

One night, while sorting through another letter from Ron she hadn’t opened, she looked up at you, eyes glassy but sure.

—"I don't think I'm waiting for him anymore," she said.