            They went to Ron’s room, like they always did. And when they climbed onto the downy mattress, and peeled back the sky blue sheets, they made love like they always did. Slowly, like it mattered. But even after she came, and Ron not long after, Hermione couldn’t help but label the coupling as inconsequential. Making love wasn’t even the right term. Their sex was an act of habit at best, a habit formed after the war thrust them together without pause for deeper consideration if they ought to even be together. She loved Ron, of course. More than a friend, but not—not quite like a brother. Not like she loved Harry. Ron was warm, and he was familiar, and he wanted her. For a while, that was good. It was enough to be wanted.