#you wouldn't think the skeles is heavy but he is

[arthrobug]

1. Whatever font Google Doc has that wrinkles my brain/Whatever font Wattpad is in

2. I used to write while books and everything by hand, there's a reason there was a giant bump there and only has become smaller in recent years. Thank glob for computer writing my hand, wrist, and arm has never been so painless.

4. First thought was the usage of 'cocked'. Off the top of my head it can be used in four separate ways that are all slightly or incredibly different.

6. That I suck at it- ya know, the usual writer's fear.

7. The power to make people clench their chest or punch the air in happiness, pain, sadness, anger, etc. Feel your heart rage at my lexicon, I beseech you.

8. A philosophical story. That shiz could go on forever and I wouldn't see a lick of movement until page 117.

9. 👻

10. A Lidge (Lance x Pidge) fic was the first thing I published on Wattpad. I don't regret shipping the pairing itself, but DAMN was the writing, pacing, ALL OF IT was off as hell... A paragraph break was the rarest thing in it, e u g h .

12. The ability to know what word I'm desperately trying to recall for what I'm writing. How to write the emotion I want to portray in the way I want to (bad, okay, good). Lastly, the ability to change writing styles/genre styles incredibly easily.

13. Difficult? Uh, that's difficult to think about ironically lmao- I'm not exactly sure, but I guess topics I don't know much about. That changes quickly though, I research fast and thoroughly. Easiest has to be emotional outbursts, mental health situations, and other shtuff similar to that. Hilariously, romance is also kind of easy, says the AroAce asdfghjkl-

14. Books be mine, no touchy. That's it, memory be very poor-

15. I read exclusively on my bed/anywhere that's comfortable to me, and no I don't write or bend physical books, never have and never will... Actually, I bend corners a little cuz of my wiggle brain BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT-

16. A cat's tail; sanitized/covered food; my leg or head

17. 'The Seven Deadly Skele-Sins' follows the story of an incredibly traumatized skeleton monster blackmailed into doing burlesque work. The leader of one of the two gangs in the city, Nightmare, saves him from an attack, and they slowly become friends, and eventually the gang leader reveals who he is to the blackmailed monster. After some plot points, training, etc, the blackmailed skeleton decided to officially join the gang as the Seventh Sin, Lust. There's also the several Warriors fics my brain has suddenly shoved into my eyes, the most prominent one being (name might change) 'Dripstar's Protection', where a loner becomes the leader of a Clan, and he and his Clanmates' arrival saves the other three Clans from further destruction of themselves.

19. I started when I was four, and it's been going pretty well, I guess. People would always tell me my writing and reading ability was far higher than the other kids, but nowadays? I'm clearly slowing down and I almost seem to be getting dumber or something. It's getter harder to read, speak, and occasionally write. It's probably because of my blatantly obvious mental disabilities, but I dunno, lmao. I want to expand my vocabulary a bit more, and try out new genres of fanfiction to write!

20. 😰... thesecondchoice

21. Heck no, mun.

22. I either organize my notes really well or I just sh-t out the story as soon as I think of it lkjhgfds-

23. My writing environment is very commonly in the comfort of my room. I usually sit or lay down on my three blanketed bed, the lowest layer being a thin, pale blue, and cool sheet. The second being a thicker, warmer and fluffier blanket of the same colour, and the third being a light yet heavy light brown comforter, the underside of the sectioned comforter a ghostly brown, almost white. The sheet covering the scratchy white mattress is also the same shade of blue as the previously mentioned blankets. It's slowly peeling off, and needs to be reattached to the mattress soon. There are three store-bought pillows on the bed, the longest being the farthest back: a red and black checkered item with a black cover. The two other pillows on it is a pillow with a pale grey cover, and a scrunched up white pillow with a red cover. There is a large and worn Panda Pillow Pet resting on the red pillow, a slightly less used and smaller panda to the left of it. The smaller Pillow Pet is barely propped against a big homemade pillow, it is cyan and fluffy, and a much smaller homemade pillow of the same style rests on it. It's top side is also cyan and furry, but the bottom is smooth and soft, a lace design of faded white on it. An additional store-bought pillow is propped against the homemade one. It has a black cover, and it is very feeble and easy to bend. This pillow rests under the three blankets, which means 3/4 of it is covered. For comfort, 13 plushies of different designers and styles are scattered across the messy bed and pillows. A Fresh!Ink plushie is tucked under the blankets. Two handmade insect plushies sit on the big fluffy pillow, their colours like the Asexual flag: black at the front, grey next, then white, and lastly purple, with their little nubs of legs reflecting the colour they are attached to, four white eyes on the black section, and crooked grey antennae attached to the dark head as well. Behind the insect plushies, and again, on the largest pillow, the smallest homemade headrest -one the size of a hand-held purse, covered in cyan fur as well,- acts as a blanket for three Pikmin toys: red on the left, blue in the middle, and yellow on the right. Their stalks of leaves, bulbs and flowers lay on a large, cylindrical corgi plushie that is wearing a corgi hat, and has a paler and smaller corgi plush standing on all four paws on its bright orange back. Directly above the smaller panda Pillow Pet, a ferret toy lies. It's name is Minty, and it is a replacement of the original ferret plush, Vainilla. Next to Minty, a kangaroo Squishmallow named Ross lies on its back, staring with its beady black eyes up to the white ceiling. The side of the bed that is against the wall sits two gargoyle plushies. They're clearly Squishmallow ripoffs, but they're cute anyways. Finally, stuffed away to the open side of the bed, a tiny and old hedgehog stuffie hides under the large homemade pillow, tucked away under it.

This was too many words lmao next question

25. About most of my characters: 3/4ths of them are either gay, disabled, monsters, or all three. It's actually more like 7/8ths,,,,

26. I sometimes think if it happening to me (dark/sweet I know), or I already know what it's like and I apply my personal experience.

27. No clue! Honestly, maybe characters I don't like/relate to at all ahaha-

28. Monsters and trans masc characters 😌💞🏳️‍⚧️💀

31. Y'all pretty if you give me comments, votes, whatever more than simple reads, I give you smoochies muah muah

32. The poem 'Ozymandias'. I've been following SAD-ist long before the green rat man was scuttling around, and I simply loved that animation a ton, but that poem... I don't know why, but it's very important/influential to me.

33. Illustrations of course! I make those for my writing works lmao

35. "Write everyday!" B-tch I'm tired let me rest

36. I know that centipedes on my absolute favorite arthropod. Did you know their family name class name can't remember whatever is called Chilopoda I find that funny millipedes are called diplopoda you know like diplo's and no man's sky what fun I'm using Texas speech no one really cares not Texas all right whatever. Y'all know what pauropods are if anyone ever seen the f****** troll movies trolls movie God those movies suck in my opinion but like the little little dj things they ride on those things look like pauropods and pauropods are so f****** cute that's not how you spell pauropods you s***** ass text to speech I'm swearing a lot oh jeez this is a wall of text hahaha holy crap it actually caught me laughing well actually I just said hahaha but you know whatever wait what was the question

37. A very wordy and depressed sociopath maybe

38. I talk to myself to figure it. I don't actually find it weird but non-writers def do. My cat is always talkin sh-t bout me while also cuddling and loving me

39. The thought of failure.

40. I don't know how to write poems, I'm really bad at them asdflkjhg-

Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird)

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil?

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

14. Do you lend your books to people? Are people scared to borrow books from you? Do you know exactly where all your “lost” books are and which specific friend from school you haven’t seen in twelve years still possesses them? Will you ever get them back?

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark?

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

20. If a witch offered you the choice between eternal happiness with your one true love and the ability to finally finish, perfect, and publish your dearest, darlingest, most precious WIP in exactly the way you've always imagined it — which would you choose? You can’t have both sorry, life’s a bitch

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not?

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it?

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

26. How do you get into your character’s head? How do you get out? Do you ever regret going in there in the first place?

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why?

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why?

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry?

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

31. Write a short love letter to your readers.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate?

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice...what do you Know?

37. If you were to be remembered only by the words you’ve put on the page, what would future historians think of you?

38. What is something about your writing process YOU think is Really Weird? If you are comfortable, please share. If you’re not comfortable, what do you think cats say about us?

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

[semisolidmind]

i looked up tea puns for this @sunvenice

anyway, I feel like they wouldn’t even spin they’d just sit and tell each other cafe-related puns

[romione-trope-fest]

Something To Look Forward To

Enjoy this wonderful Stuck Together from Goldilockss!

----------------------------

Fic Title: Something To Look Forward To

Author name: Goldilockss

Selected Trope: Stuck Together

Summary: Falling into a pit in the middle of nowhere might sound like the last thing they need on their dangerous quest. In reality, it might be exactly the excuse they're looking for to mend everything that had been damaged.

Word count: 5850

Rating: T (for the swearing) 

... 

The wind was bitingly cold as they trudged tiredly through the heavy snow, inconsistently laden upon the forest's landscape. In one place, it'd feel 10 cm deep, and Ron's boot would sink unsteadily throwing him slightly off balance in the process, and in the next, the path would have melted somehow or been stomped through by creatures he'd rather not imagine around, exposing the solid ground below.

He didn't have to look into a mirror to know his cheeks were blazing, not from embarrassment this time however, but the icy punch mother nature has decided to throw at them this February evening. The once thick sole on his boots had long become worn, likely even before he ever put them on, and the moisture was seeping torturously into his socks.

It was utter shit, in another words.

And yet, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

"I think we should probably stop in about a quarter mile, don't you think, Harry?", her voice called out a few metres ahead of him.

Then there was the metaphorical coldness that somehow stabbed him harder than the freezing temperatures ever could.

He heard Harry mumble a reply, somewhat unenthusiasticaly, before facing forward again.

It had been a bit over a month now, since he had appeared at that frozen lake. Subconsciously, Ron squeezed the deluminator that rested snugly in his front pocket. He hadn't expected a warm welcome of course, in fact, on one lonely occasion in the middle of nowhere, he'd had the paralysing image of them kicking him out before he'd even set foot inside the tent.

But for once in his life, it seemed, he had managed to push those thoughts aside, too crushed by the unbearably heavy guilt of leaving to abandon his search. And his persistence had paid off. Harry was surprisingly, but not unpleasantly so, easy to fall back into friendship with. And though Ron often wondered whether the inadvertent insight his best mate got into the chaotically tangled jungle that was Ron's mind played a significant role in the painless forgiveness, he tried not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hermione, however, was a completely different story. Cold shoulders, biting retorts, or worse, complete dismissal, despite their familiarity, were still harder to swallow than a gallon of Skele-gro. But he promised himself he wouldn't let it discourage him, not when in the grand scheme of things, the idea of seeing her every day, alive and moving around right before his eyes, counted higher than any offhand insult ever could.

In any case, he felt like he deserved it. More, really. So he kept trekking through the snowy woods, several steps behind Hermione, who in turn, was a few feet behind Harry, the ominous silence providing a blank canvas for his thoughts, as all other sound save for their heavy steps and labored breathing, got absorbed by the pillowy snow.

That is until-

"Eh- sorry", he said meekly, a tinge confused why he almost walked right into Hermione's cloud of hair.

And now she was making no attempt to move forward. Instead, she appeared to be shaking off her boots by stomping them almost furiously into the little patch of solid ground.

"I-is everything alright?" he swallowed nervously.

She ignored him, continuing with her efforts of digging a hole to the other side of the world. The natural way to proceed for him was with a joke, but he held back.

Ron tapped her shoulder lightly and she recoiled immediately. He pretended it didn't hurt.

"What?!", she asked irritably.

"Uh…just wasn't sure what you're doing," he shrugged.

"I'm doing something! Either shut up and don't bother me or keep on walking," she snapped turning back to her mysterious task.

Guess that settles it then, he thought, refraining from opening his mouth once more. A distant part of him knew it made his blood boil the way she was treating him like hippogriff dung she was trying to scrape of her shoe. But that part, the currently dormant part that would've inevitably started arguing with her, had no power over the much larger part that insisted on staying in her good books, no matter what.

He looked up to where Harry stood far ahead, apparently having noticed the absence of steps behind him and having turned around to watch indifferently. Their eyes met, and Ron shrugged mutely at his questioning glance.

He was tempted to make an exception on his previous decision to remain quiet when everything around him switched into action, and before he could say 'hippogriff', he was falling-

"-fuck!"

There was a searing pain just above his arse, he noticed, and a mass sprawled across him… and hastily getting up, he felt. Felt, because whatever shithole they had found themselves in this time, was engulfed in impenetrable darkness.

"Hermione?", he asked uncertainly, struggling to his feet. "You there?"

"Light your wand," she ordered, doing the same, and he could finally recognise the frazzled look on her face.

Not for long though, as she turned around, light pointed in the direction of the ceiling.

"What on earth happened?"

It seemed like she wasn't planning on answering until, "We need to let Harry know we're okay. There's a hatch, but it's powered by some intricate magic, so it won't open."

"Uhm, okay, have you tried… alohomora?"

If looks could kill.

"I'll assume you did then. That was a stupid question. He'll probably put up the protective charms around this spot for now."

He felt like she was only half-listening, recognising that wild look in her eyes when approximately a million thoughts a minute were trying to pass through that brilliant mind of hers.

The eerie stillness of the dark was sending a shiver down his spine, and he wondered whether there was a different light source in here. What is this place anyway?

Instinctively, Ron pulled out the deluminator, flicking it open swiftly and releasing whatever source was stored neatly inside. To his great relief, what looked like an abandoned lantern in the corner of the room, lit up, painting the concrete walls in a golden glow.

Hermione didn't verbally acknowledge the change, but stored away her wand nonetheless.

"We could slip in a piece of paper through the crack I think," she concluded more to herself, reaching into her beaded bag to look for what was presumably a quill and some parchment.

"You could try a patronus too, maybe", he added hopefully, willing to be an active participant.

She stopped her movements before rounding on him again, "You try it."

Ron's ears burned red despite the chill, as he chastised himself for bringing up the idea in the first place. "Mine's not gonna work," he replied evenly.

"And why is that?"

"It just won't. Yours will definitely be better, trust me."

"I'd rather not."

Ouch.

He knew casting a patronus wasn't her strong suit, especially a talking one, but if anyone could figure it out it would be her. She didn't seem too keen though.

"Guess we'll stick with your idea then," he nodded.

Hermione was already halfway there, taking a self-inking quill to scratch a note against the wall. "Why don't you give that patronus of yours a go then?" She sounded rather condescending, and he missed the times she would enthusiastically encourage him to practice his spells.

Raising his wand with a trembling hand, he found himself in the same troublesome predicament as when he had tried it over a month ago. He wasn't sure whether it was the general dismal hopelessness of a war, the deeply embedded fear of losing a loved one that seemed to have a perpetual grip on his heart, or You-Know-Who's dark violating entrance into Ron's most private thoughts still fresh on his mind, that currently prevented any positive memories from occurring.

That's why, Ron wasn't too surprised to see what could only be called a burp of magic spit out of his outstretched wand, before disintegrating immediately. But his awareness of it didn't stop the shame.

He turned his head haltingly to catch Hermione staring intently at him in the oppressing silence, before hastily looking back at her parchment.

Great, now he didn't just look like a twat, but like a ham-fisted one, he sighed opting to shove his wand wordlessly into his back pocket and to instead observe the lovely abode they were currently trapped in.

"That should do it," he heard Hermione mutter under her breath, stuffing the folded note in the narrow crevice of the otherwise leaden metal hatch.

"Now we have to find a way out of here before it gets dark. The ground felt hollow before... There must be some kind of triggering spell or something…", she trailed off, thinking out loud rather than talking directly to him.

"And this might be some sort of trap. There could be pre-charmed curses on standby-," she continued.

"There aren't," he interrupted suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

Clearing his throat and removing his hand from the rough engraving he'd been tracing on the coarse concrete, he risked turning towards her.

"We're safe here, I think."

"And how, may I ask, did you come to that conclusion?", she bristled, hands firmly on her hips.

Ignoring the clear scepticism, he pointed at the wall, where a roughly sketched phoenix in a circle stood out proudly.

"It's one of the original emblems of the order," he smiled wistfully.

Hermione's tense stance weakened slightly as she approached it.

"How do you know that?"

"Mum had uhm… some old photos of her brothers, y'know, during the first war. She'd get them out sometimes and show them to us. And a few had that symbol somewhere."

She nodded in acknowledgement, and questioned further, apparently forgetting for a split second that she was furious with him, "So where are we then? Some sort of bunker?"

"I think that's exactly where we are. I've heard about these, there were quite a few scattered around Britain. Apparently they-fuck... "

"Is it necessary to swear so much?", she asked heatedly, but Ron was too busy running an irritated hand through his hair.

"We won't be getting out of here any earlier than in two hours, well," he lifted his watch, "An hour and fifty minutes to be exact."

Her expression plagued with unbridled horror as she squeaked, "What? Why?!"

"It's the way these things are built," he exhaled heavily. "They were like random hideouts from death eaters for people on the run the first time 'round. That's why they made them practically indestructible and real durable," he banged a fist on the firm wall in demonstration and regretted it immediately. "There's some sort of timer - dad discussed it with Bill once - it locks you in, no way in, no way out, for a couple of hours. They wanted to use them now too but they decided against it. Impractical, apparently," he finished sardonically.

"No, no, no, there must be a way out!"

Hermione's response was overly shrill in his opinion, considering they could've been much worse off.

"It's okay, we'll explain it to Harry in another note, he can light a fire and sit guard for now, it's not that big of-"

"Not that big of a deal?!", she screeched, and he had the horrific discovery that she was on the brink of tears. "The last thing I want right now is to be stuck in a putrid, sealed, concrete box, especially with you!"

She sniffed noisily before facing away to scribble another hasty note to Harry, as Ron stood frozen in place. His heart plummeted to his stomach at her words, his eyes burned as if dipped in acid, and all he could respond with was a faint, "Oh."

Flumping dejectedly in one corner of the dim room, he focused on examining every imperfection of the uneven wall. Absently, he noted Hermione occupying the opposite corner, having shoved the parchment through to Harry.

This was going to be a long two hours.

---

Naturally, about half an hour in, Hermione pulled out one of the tattered books stowed away in her beaded bag.

An uncomfortable stillness spread through the air. Ron hated silence. It left him alone with his thoughts, dwelling uselessly on every single humiliating interaction or irreparable mistake he's ever committed, which generally left him more disheartened than he was to begin with. Ironically, he'd found himself in more and more of these silent situations, where the quietness grows deeper until all he can hear is the steady rhythm of his heart and the deafening whirlwind of intrusive thoughts that encloses him.

But nothing compared to how sickening it got with the locket fastened to his neck, hanging like a suffocating weight on his chest. Because the conflicting thoughts that tend to tip slightly towards the negative, became indiscernibly interlaced with those of Tom Riddle, throwing everything atrociously off balance.

As much as the claw-like grip of guilt strangling him still followed him around - and would continue do so, he knew, for a very long time if not forever - in the relieving solitude of his cluttered mind, he could admit that leaving was inevitable.

As heartless as it sounded even to his own ears, he knew the desperation to confirm his family's well-being and Riddle's overwhelming presence within him, would've lead him away. Because if they didn't, the dark, cruel thoughts that had plagued his conscience then, would've prevailed eventually. He would've ended up either hurting his friends, or himself. And one fact he knew to be indisputably true, was that it would always end in the latter.

It was after several more minutes of silent pondering that he croaked out, "I'm sorry."

A callous laugh escaped her, "Good to know. Anything for in particular?"

Though her voice dripped with venom, he responded honestly.

"Everything, really. For being a prat First Year and calling you a nightmare, being a prat in Third Year with that bloody rat, being a prat in Fourth Year with Krum, being a prat in Sixth Year with Lavender, and obviously being a prat this year and…leaving, but I was a prat even before I left, with the locket and all, so I'm sorry for that too. And since you can sense a recurring theme here, just sorry for being a prat."

Ron didn't dare look at her, afraid he'll see her laugh again or worse, not even care. He'd apologised already, but it was shorter and she didn't seem to be listening then, as she pretended to ignore him. Now, since they found themselves in this unique predicament, he figured he might as well take his shot, lest she think his previous apology insincere or insufficient.

Yet the unnerving silence stretched further, urging him to take a peak at his verdict. To his horror, when he finally twisted his neck to check on her, there were silent tears cascading down her cheeks, his view only slightly obstructed by the rampant curls framing her face.

"Hey, no, no, no, please don't cry… I'm not worth it," he edged slightly towards her, bringing himself on his butt about two arm-lengths away. He supposed that at least she was showing some form of emotion besides the constant venomous retorts, but seeing her cry was one of those things that always managed to break his heart, and unfortunately, due to his own stupidity, she mostly did it on his account. Good going you moron.

Hermione's head snapped up, her glare still just as penetratingly fierce even with red-rimmed eyes and wet tear-tracks. "D-do you think you'll just say sorry and everything will go back to normal?!"

"What? Of course not! I know it won't," he fumed, feeling like she wasn't listening, "I know you fucking hate me, Hermione, who wouldn't hate me? I hate me. I don't expect you to forgive me either. I just wanted you to know I mean it, that I'm really sorry, there are literally no words to describe how sorry I am, and I need you to know that. That it was literally torture being away from you," he felt brave enough to omit the unnecessary 'and Harry' that popped up in most of their conversations over the years, "and I'd honestly rather die than do it again."

She was wiping at her eyes furiously, "You can't do that. You can't promise you won't leave again when we don't know what's going to happen tomorrow or the day after that…"

"No, I suppose I can't," he shifted an inch closer and caught her eye, staring unwaveringly into her hazel pools. "But I can swear I won't do it willingly. I won't make that decision again. They'd have to drag me away."

She suppressed a hiccupy sob, nodding and breaking eye contact to look at her fingers. Maybe it wasn't perfect, but they had come a lot further than he expected.

Ron suddenly became aware of the slight tremor in her hands, squeezed in the crack created by her bent knees.

"What-?"

She barely had time to protest as he draped his padded jacket on top of her legs. "Don't even try to deny it." Though he said it, he was still surprised when she complied. Maybe they had gotten a lot further than he first assumed.

"Aren't you going to be cold?", she asked hesitantly.

"I'll be alright."

He picked at his laces for a bit until she asked in a small voice he wasn't used to hearing from her, "How much time do we have left?"

Sighing resignedly, he checked his watch, " 'Bout 40 minutes, give or take."

Fully utilising the surge of Gryffindor courage that currently existed within him, he remained seated two feet away instead of fleeing back to his corner. He would've been happy to have sat there, closer than they have in months, even without saying another word, but Hermione seemed to have other plans.

"I don't hate you," she murmured softly, looking down, and it took him a moment to convince himself she actually said it.

"It would've been reasonable, even if you did," he said despite himself.

"I don't," she hurried to repeat, finally turning to look at him. "I'm still really angry," he nodded in understanding, "but I could never hate you."

Her sincerity was overwhelming, and he blinked rapidly for a few seconds before risking a tiny smile her way. And Ron was thanking every deity that existed when she granted him one too.

Well, in for a knut, in for a galleon.

Ron scooted over until their thighs just brushed barely against each other.

"I'm still furious though. And I need to know more before I can come to terms with it."

He made to move back away, afraid he'd gone too far, but she placed a reassuring hand on his knee.

Ron swallowed the lump that had gathered in his throat, and strived to ignore the tingles her touch sent through him."What do you want to know? Whatever it is, I'll say it."

Hermione searched his eyes for several seconds and he took the opportunity to relish her entire attention being directed at him. "You and Harry are hiding something. About how you destroyed the locket…,"she paused, perhaps uncertain about continuing upon noticing his face pale significantly, "besides, I'd have to be stupid to believe that it didn't fight back."

Ron's mouth opened then closed several times like a fish suddenly thrown out of water. There's little less he'd like than to relive those agonizing minutes that brought the expression wears his heart on his sleeve to a whole new dimension. But his dilemma wasn't really a difficult choice at the end of the day - he'd relive it a million times for her - so he shut his eyes and swallowed, turning to stare at the opposite wall.

Finally, he spoke, "I-it had more of an effect on me, than on either of you. I don't know why, maybe I'm weaker, but I'm not saying this as an excuse. Just…it's easier to understand this way."

From the corner of his eye, he saw her nodding.

"Anyway, when I put it on, yeah, it would say stuff-"

"It never made a sound," she cut in, and he was split between annoyance at her interruption and amusement of it being such a her thing to do.

"Not out loud, it didn't speak out loud."

"Then-"

"Hermione! Could you, like, let me finish? I'm not very well-spoken as is."

She had the decency to look abashed, and nodded for him to go on.

He exhaled heavily, "It would whisper things to me, but it was all in here," he pointed to his head. "He'd be using my own thoughts against me. Make me convinced my worst fears were real and doubt whatever I previously hoped wasn't."

Ron felt her shake her head slowly, "I don't understand. Like what?"

He had the distinct feeling he was burning up. "Like-like when I was practically bedridden, and you were coming to check on my arm… it felt like I was a burden, to you and Harry, that I'm holding you back. Felt like you were talking behind my back, complaining about me or…", he trailed off, not quite ready to finish that sentence.

"That's ridiculous," her eyes were incinerating the side of his face.

Ron released a mirthless laugh. "It didn't feel ridiculous," he commented downcast.

"No!" her tiny hand was unexpectedly clutching onto his arm. "I mean, I was the one who almost killed you. I could never think you were a burden, cause I was too busy feeling guilty."

"There was nothing to be guilty about. 'Twasn't your fault, it was an accident, and you saved us," he defended instantly.

"Maybe, but we never thought you were holding us back."

"Like I said, I couldn't really give you the benefit of the doubt. It was just neverending negativity."

"So…"

"So?"

"What happened when you destroyed it?"

He flicked his gaze rapidly to her, then back to the plain wall.

"It did the same thing, but worse."

For a moment he couldn't continue but she wouldn't have it, "How?"

And then, the words came tumbling out, "H-Harry said I should do it, said he felt like it had to be me. I was holding the sword and Harry opened it with parseltongue, but before I could hit it, there was a weird hissing sound, a-and it was him."

"Tom R-"

"Yeah," he confirmed anxiously. "His eye, translucent like a ghost o-or illusion or something. And then he started talking…", he dropped his head solidly into his large palms, as if the image could be banished as long as he closed his eyes, but the image was eternally imprinted onto the back of his eyelids, replaying the same part like a broken record.

Once his head lifted, ashen-faced and expressionless, he stared unseeingly at the wall, unaware of Hermione's evident hesitation, and echoed the words that felt carved into his soul more painfully than with Umbridge's black quill, "I have seen your heart, and it is mine. I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible…"

Ron's unnaturally impassive voice lacked its usual unrestrained emotion and his lifelessly phlegmatic disposition made Hermione shudder, as if the life was suddenly sucked out of him, rendering the air around them uncomfortably frigid.

"Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter… Least loved, now, by the girl who prefers your friend… Second best, always, eternally overshadowed…"

Ripped out of his trance-like state by Hermione practically cutting off the blood flowing through his forearm, Ron turned swiftly, observing her eyes wide with horror and certainly a freight train of other emotions he couldn't really pick out.

"Don't! You don't have to-"

"But I do, don't I? I want you to know," he breathed. His mind was on fire but the barrage of thoughts were making him numb enough to be unconcerned by the fact that his feelings for her, if he chose to continue, would be as obvious as the freckles blanketing his skin.

It took her a moment to consider, but curiosity seemed to win out, "Okay."

"So, yeah...," he breathed out shakily. "Then-then you and Harry appeared..."

"What?"

"Illusions of you. But you kept adding on to the things Riddle was taunting me with, that I'm nothing, and no one would ever choose me over the Chosen One, stuff like that," he gulped. "It was a lot more staggering, coming from you,... but I think that was the goal, wasn't it?"

The last part seemed lodged in his throat, so deciding to forgo the idea of being articulate, he let the words flood out of him like an open dam, "And then the two of you, the illusions of you, started snogging so I couldn't take it anymore and grabbed the sword and smashed right through it." Deciding to omit the part about him crying like a baby, he let his words sink in, before peering at her once more.

Hermione was no longer touching him, and her eyes were flooded with a dangerous concoction of outrage, calculation and bewilderment as she scrutinised him, connecting all the scattered pieces. Ron just hoped she liked the final image.

Then her hands were flying at him like wild bludgers, "ARE" smack "YOU" punch "KIDDING" slap "ME?!"

"Ow! Hermione- stop!", he attempted to catch her flailing arms to halt the stinging blows.

"How could you even think I liked Harry that way?! He's like a brother to me! He always has been!"

"I know that now! That's what he said too, when y'know... he saw everything."

"Because that's how it's always been!"

"Well how was I supposed to know that?!", it was his turn to retaliate and it felt somewhat freeing to finally release some of the emotions that'd been pent up for weeks, if not years.

"I don't know, Ronald! Common sense, maybe?"

"Are you shitting me? The entire bloody Wizarding world thought you were dating! Excuse me for not being very certain."

"And what was it, exactly, that made you believe that load of rubbish?!", she shot back.

He faltered slightly, "I don't know. I guess you've always gotten along quite well, and who wouldn't like Harry? You were always trying to be affectionate and supportive with him and all that...", he trailed off.

"Of course I was trying to make him feel better, Ron! He's an orphan whose guardians are abusive monsters, you insensitive halfwit!"

"Thanks for reminding me, I must've forgotten," he replied sarcastically, getting worked up, "it's not like I've bloody slept in the same room as him for years, or have literally kidnapped his arse from that shithole! I know exactly what my best mate's going through. And I help as much as I can when he wants me to help."

Ron's entire face was blazing now, but there was no stopping him. "It's always about poor Harry, but where does that leave me, huh? Yes, I wouldn't wish his fate on anyone else and this whole savior-of-the-world prophecy is a fucking nightmare for him, but he gets everything else! The love, the fame, the money, the support, when do I get something? I just want one thing for myself! Since he's an orphan then what, I don't deserve affection, or attention or fucking anything? I was almost always there for him, and I despise myself for the times I wasn't, and he had plenty of people who loved him. His mother's love was strong enough to defeat the darkest curse in history! My mum doesn't even know my favorite color! When has anybody ever loved me?! Where was everyone when I was at my lowest?!"

It felt like he was hyperventilating, as he ended his sentence in the deafening silence. He definitely didn't mean to let it all out like that. Or at all, really. He had learned to live with it, that foul part of his mind. They were his problems. No one was supposed to know. Especially not the girl he loved. Now, whatever chance the hopeful part of his subconscious wished he had was positively gone.

Hermione was staring at him, tears pouring silently onto her flushed cheeks, hazel eyes sparkling in the dim light and wide with an unreadable expression, but no less beautiful, as he awaited his verdict once more.

Yet just like always they were interrupted, as a loud clonk sounded above their heads and the metal latch creaked open, flinging the hatch open.

How convenient, Ron thought miserably, and Hermione snatched her wrists hurriedly out of his grasp before he even had the chance to acknowledge it.

Harry's messy head popped into view with a relieved smile, and moved away just as quickly when Hermione clambered her way out.

"Everything alright?", he heard him ask, referring to the both of them.

"Yes," Hermione answered stiffly, "I'll set up the tent now."

Her light footsteps faded away before Harry asked him, "So, no progress made then? I kind of hoped the whole 'trapped in one place' thing would help you sort things out."

Ron extinguished the light with his deluminator and picked up his forgotten jacket, peering up at him and sighing, "I think I fucked it up even worse this time."

"Are you sure that's possible?", Harry grinned at him teasingly. There was always a light-hearted tone to their friendship, and joking with Harry never failed to make him feel a little better. But his heart and his mind were too far down in the dumps right now.

To avoid worrying him, Ron sent a half-hearted smile his way as he climbed out, closing the hatch back up and watching it conceal itself. "Probably is."

If Harry noticed anything off, he didn't comment. "I suppose I should be thankful you're coming out of there alive then?"

"Yeah, just barely. You go inside mate, I'll take up watch," he patted his back. There was still another hour of Harry's time left technically, but he figured he needed some time alone. Or away from the painful truth.

"Alright then, cheers mate." Harry grinned and disappeared through the flap.

Ron settled on the ground, leaning tiredly against the canvas tent wall. Another silent night alone with his thoughts.

---

Ron had expected their night watches to overlap. One of his favorite ways to overcome the guilt of leaving was by sitting out there for as long as physically possible, until one of them send him back in or he felt too exhausted. Today, the nervous energy of the previous hours hadn't dissipated, so he wasn't planning on going in at all. He'd let her sleep a bit longer, it's the least he could do.

Which is why he was surprised when, not even two hours in, the tent flap rustled behind him.

His eyes must've literally left his sockets for a second when he saw it was her. Caught like a deer in headlights, she stood frozen and staring back at him.

Hermione cleared her throat noisily, regaining some semblance of control, "I brought you a cup of tea."

"Oh," he released excitedly, reaching out for the cup she was extending, "thank you," he added softly. Silently, she lowered herself beside him, palms firmly clasping her own steaming cuppa.

"I'm sorry," she sniffed some minutes later, causing him to almost spit out his tea in surprise.

"What on earth for?" Hermione rarely apologised for anything she did do wrong, and he could barely think of anything at the moment.

"I've been thinking, after what you said..."

Oh, that's not good.

"...and I realised how awfully I treated you over the years."

What? That's what she got from that fuck up of a declaration?

When he unintentionally unloaded his biggest fears on her, the last thing he wanted was to make her feel bad.

"Are you barking? What makes you say that?"

She looked at him owl-eyed like he was as nutty as his mother's fruitcake. "I've literally sent birds at you that left permanent scars!"

He rubbed his arms subconsciously, "They healed a bit...and I kind of deserved it, anyway."

"And I knew you were insecure about some things and I couldn't understand why, but I never even complimented you! In fact, I just kept on criticising you!"

"You always said constructive criticism helps you improve," he shrugged, "you inspired me to push myself, there's nothing bad about that."

"Yes, but I never told you how wonderful you actually are... I just kept making it worse," she sniffed again, eyes moist with suppressed distress. "How you felt, that's awful. No one should feel like that. Like they're not loved," she added in a quieter tone that made his heart beat a little faster.

"And you got it all wrong," she added.

Ron offered her a timid smile, "I was kind of hoping I did this time."

"I wasn't more affectionate towards Harry because I liked him more," it looked like she was preparing to divulge important information and he braced himself, "I just didn't want you to figure out I liked you more than Harry."

Well, that might just end him right here. Her half-whispered words were like a soothing balm, that calmed him yet simultaneously made his skin vibrate with exhilarating energy. It was the closest thing to what he dreamed of hearing her say, what he hoped she felt.

"I like you more than Harry too," he snuffed a little, wiping his sleeve haphazardly against his wet eyes.

She laughed in such a lighthearted way that made his heart sing. He loved hearing her laugh, and he hadn't heard nearly enough of it over the past weeks.

They were both smiling goofily, tears rushing down their faces in the overwhelming atmosphere, when he blurted, "I know you're still angry, but can I hug you?"

It felt like another sob burst out of her as she nodded eagerly, "Please do."

In the next few moments they were a jumble of limbs in a moist embrace, his tall stature bending over her much smaller form as Ron held her tightly to his chest, tighter than he ever had. Hermione too, scrambled to latch her hands on his back, head snuggled securely against his collarbone.

"Oh, I missed you so much," he whispered against the side of her head.

Her arms tightened protectively around him as she murmured, "Me too."

It wasn't the moment for big confessions, they both knew. They still had a war to fight, a world to save, a friend to stand by through it all.

But hours later, when Hermione was leaning comfortably on his shoulder, eyes heavy with the mellow warmth of her jar of bluebell flames in front of them, Ron had a sudden surge of optimism fill him and he knew they'd get it done. This hunt and the mission. Because now he had something absolutely wicked to look forward to, and he wouldn't let some nasty-looking madman stand in his way.