Ron would never understand why Hermione loved him. For someone who adored, even obsessed over, perfection, she had made a choice far removed from her tendencies.

Her need to be perfect was a running joke with them at times, at others a heady suffocating burden that he would ease with soft words of encouragement and kisses to her temple while she shook.

It was a mix of feeling as if she had to maintain a position of being above others, because that was the expectation pressed upon her, and belief that if she didn't remain the best at everything her value as a human being was cast into doubt. Sometimes not even Ron could wipe away the anxiety along with her tears, even though he tried.

The desperation inside her to be perfect used to be all-consuming. It was less so now, but even then there would be days where her mind would crumble under the pressure of succeeding.

All this in mind, it was impossible for Hermione to genuinely be in love with him.

Because whatever perfect was, he wasn't it.

He ran his fingers around the rim of his glass, the glow of whiskey golden on the table, on his skin. His thoughts were smudged and drained of colour: the same dull repetition of the same words, the same beliefs, you're not good enough, you can't be.

Hermione hadn't come back from work yet. The ministry ground her to the bone, but she was trying her hardest to battle her way against the prejudice and challenges, and he was incredibly proud of her.

But right now, he'd give nothing more than for her to be here.

He took another sip, the burn dulled too. She deserved diamonds, but he was naught but dirty spotted glass, like the windows that slumped within their cavities in those houses that held no people or any kind of life, save for the mould growing on the ceilings (Hermione had told him about this strange thing called bacteria, he still couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact it was actually alive).

A key clicked in the lock, and a door creaked open. "Rooooooooon! I'm hoooooooooooome!"

A grin rolled across his face despite himself. "'Mioneeeeeeeeee!" he called back, jumping up clumsily.

They both made their way to the same kitchen doorway, wrapping each other tightly in a hug as though they hadn't seen each other in centuries.

Ron sniffed. "You smell."

"Owl crapped on me."

"Ah." He squeezed her tightly, then let go and smiled at her with blurry sight.

Hermione sniffed. "You smell too."

"Had a drink."

"Ah."

As Hermione walked off to wash the owl shit completely from her hair ("I tried my best with magic, but I have too much hair, and there was a meeting to go to, so I didn't have time to clean it all out, bloody owls-"), Ron watched her, the empty ache less.

He'd talk with her tomorrow about this. It was two at night, they were both tired, and besides, there was owl shit to reckon with.

Which, as you can guess, really does smell bad.