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sweet creature

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A gentle breeze offered momentary relief from the stifling heat of late-summer—the tall grass of the overgrown field swayed, tickling where it brushed against the bare skin of her arms. Hermione tipped her chin up to the sky, closed her eyes, and took in a deep, steadying breath. 

From the field behind the Burrow she could just barely hear the laughter of the Weasley grandchildren as they played with George's newest development for the store. She smiled and it struck her, suddenly, how happy she was.

Hermione felt the gentle touch of a hand against hers and turned her head toward Ron. His freckles were more prominent after a day in the sun—she traced a nonsensical path between them gently with the tip of her finger.

There were no words exchanged between them. They’d slowly relearned how to speak their private language of side glances and soft touches in the months since they’d decided to give their relationship another try.

Hermione easily deciphered his silent proclamations:

Thank you for accepting my wild, crazy family. 

I’m so happy that you’re here with me. 

I love you. 

Years ago she had been jealous that Ron and Harry had so many things that were theirs, building blocks of their friendship that were exclusive to only them.

But she had the field, and it was more than enough.