Emma hugging her stepbrother and stepsisters
i have no control over what i draw honestly my brain just says draw romione and i just,,, do it
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Here’s a list with more than 100 romione fics. I chose my favourite ones and I can guarantee you that they are worth reading. Enjoy!
A different kind of apology
Title: A Different Kind of Apology
Prompt/Day: Day 7 - Anything goes!
Tumblr name:
Rating: K+
Brief summary: Ron has just returned, fresh after destroying the locket, and Hermione has never been more furious: though he, undoubtedly, expects her temper to subside after a few hours —as it usually does—, night falls again and she still refuses to talk to him. What she doesn’t expect, though, is that he’ll try anything for her to forgive him.
She lays in bed, lost in thought, facing nowhere as she feels her thoughts stew. They haven’t stopped boiling since he’s come back: a Molotov cocktail of relief, euphoria, incapacitating hurt, and steely fury is brewing in her mind, and it’s all she can do to keep it from exploding.
So she’s kept her mouth shut.
Not an easy feat for her, especially not when she feels herself overflowing with things to tell him (it’s so good you’re back, I’ve been dying to talk to you), with things she wishes she’d said before (don’t leave me, Ron, I can’t do it without you), with things she yearns to spit in his face (how dare you, walking out like that, I thought you were dead)… But some things take precedence over others, and for Hermione Granger, the utmost priority is always to think— and right now, she needs some silence to do it properly.
She hears a rustle as someone clambers in through the tent flap. Harry’s on guard tonight: he’d been volunteering a lot more today (undoubtedly an effort to get her to talk to Ron), but she hadn’t let him; finally, when he’d noticed she was starting to succumb to exhaustion, he’d forced her to step inside and get some rest, Hermione, for Merlin’s sake.
So she had, and Harry had taken her wand to sit out front and keep watch.
But that means there’s only one person who could be climbing in right now— and it’s the person she least wants to talk to in the world right now. So she rolls over in bed, her blankets shifting as she switches her gaze to the opposite wall, keeping her brow furrowed and her back turned to the rest of the tent.
“‘Mione,” she hears a soft plea, and her heart threatens to melt: he never calls you that, he must mean it, oh Merlin, it’s so sweet. However, her anger regains command and steers her harshly away from that path: he left you, he screamed at you, and he came back laughing, like nothing had happened… With steely determination, she remains where she is. “'Mione, please…”
And still nothing.
A second later, she hears the cot springs squeak as another weight settles down on it— and she really has to steel herself to keep her arms crossed, her face unyielding, to not reach out and smack him, how dare you, Ronald…
“You don’t have to talk. I know you don’t want to. But just listen to me, please.” Silence. “Please, can you do that?” She keeps her silence, impassive. Ron seems to take it as a yes, sighs, and plunges in: “I know I should’ve never left…”
She hears a cold laugh rattling around her insides, and hates how it sounds: Oh, figured that out, didn’t you, you bright boy, took you long enough to realize you should’ve stayed. She shakes it off; its cruelty scares her, and she refuses to think that’s how she really feels.
“…and I’m sorry I did,” he continues. “And if I have to keep apologizing to you every day of my life until you believe me, Hermione Granger, I will. There wasn’t a second after I’d stepped outside your spells —they’re brilliant, by the way, I really couldn’t see anything, but of course you don’t need me to tell you that— that I didn’t wish I hadn’t. And it’s not like I went back and lived comfortably in the Burrow, you know, I had to hide too—” She scoffs, and he hurries to correct the offense: “—well, of course it’s wasn’t as bad as you lot had it, but still… It would’ve been better if I’d been with you. Everything is, Hermione, please trust me on that.”
She still says nothing. That awful part of her, the one that keeps cackling in the pit of her stomach, wants to see him grovel, wants to see him beg, wants to see him get on his knees and bawl for forgiveness. But Hermione’s nothing if not level-headed, even when she’s the angriest she’s ever been, and so she holds her icy silence.
He tries a different approach now, in a softer tone, at a slower pace: “I meant it, Hermione, it was your voice I heard coming from the Deluminator. There’s no way I could’ve made that up. Your voice— well, it’s the only thing that could’ve brought me back. And it did. I don’t think— I mean, if it’d been Harry’s, I would’ve thought the thing was cursed and chucked it,” he stops to chuckle, but quickly zips it when he notices she stiffens rather than laughs. “You don’t understand, do you? It’s you. I came back for you. Yeah, of course, it’s a noble quest and we’re going to save the Wizarding World and all that rubbish that some kids are gonna be bored listening to Binns droll about in a few decades, but I came back for you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you alone. I couldn’t bear not seeing your face among the first things I saw when I opened my eyes every morning. I couldn’t bear the fact that I wasn’t getting regularly lectured in the same voice that brought me back. I couldn’t stand it, alright? Guilt was a factor, I can’t deny that, but being away from you is the hardest thing I’ve had to do.”
The beast in her chest is quiet now. It’s not purring —though it wants to, a part of it does, he missed you, Hermione, you, he came back for you—, but it’s laying low, still on the lookout for a threat without being on attack. Ron seems to sense her softening, because he places a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t swat it away— whether it’s because her anger is still petrifying her or because she genuinely wants it there, not even she can tell. “Say something, Hermione,” he pleads, even softer this time. “Anything. You don’t have to say you forgive me. You don’t have to say it’s okay. Just say… say… say anything.”
She’s still not looking at him, but it’s as if he’s deflated. He doesn’t try anything more— is he still hoping? Is he thinking she’s going to roll over and look at him and tell him it’s okay, you lovely boy, I forgive you? She can’t lie to herself— a part of her wants to, it’s pulling at her heartstrings to just look at him already, but she won’t give in. She can’t. She’s too angry, and he needs to know that, he needs to know just how broken he left her.
She doesn’t move.
Everything stands still for a moment, a tension thickening the air so much you could slash through it. Then he speaks again, almost mumbling: “Alright, you don’t wanna talk to me, I understand that. Just let me try to apologize to you— let me show you how much you mean to me— in a different way.”
The bedsprings lift again, and she thinks he’s gone to sleep, he’s gonna try again tomorrow, but he’s given up today— and then the bedsprings creak down again with even more force. The blankets lift, and he crawls in bed behind her. She feels him settle in a curve around her, cupping her body with his, and he drapes a careful arm around her midriff. He hesitates; but she hasn’t stiffened, she hasn’t tried to get away, and he takes that as a sign that he can pull her to him tighter.
She’s surprised to feel tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, surprised at how much she likes this, surprised at how a long-hidden craving she’d had for so long (while he was gone, while he wasn’t near her) at last feels sated now that he’s holding her. And finally, in the warmth of his arms, even as she still feels her chest bound with the last strains of anger, she allows herself to fall asleep peacefully for the first time in months.