written for the potter project competition.

i love me some ron/hermione, but i don't own them.

i also do not own 'she's thunderstorms' by alex turner/arctic monkeys.

she's thunderstorms

ron/hermione

"i've been feeling foolish, you should try it.
she came and substituted the peace and quiet for acrobatic blood flow concertina.
cheating heartbeat, rapid fire."

They always go to hide in the tiny weasley boy treehouse, exactly twenty-four meters out into the woods.
It was a beautiful place full of imaginary vines and animals, storybook characters and multi-coloured carpets. Today was a day when they decided to escape from Mrs. Weasley's massive dinner, and hide away in a place that was all their own.

Hell was finished, battle burns finally cooled off with the extinguishing wind of November. They were all old souls in teenage bodies, full of love, loss, tears and scars that magic can't erase. But there were good things in their souls too, beautifully painted memories.

Like her eyes.

Her eyes were just the perfect shade of amber that made him forget everything. Actually, no. They were gold. Gold like the sun or rings he wanted on fingers. They were warm like autumn fires, a season he never particularly enjoyed until he met her and Harry, because it meant he would be going back to school. He would be going back to Hermione Granger, the girl with golden eyes.

Her hand clasped tight in his, they run, deep into the forest. She's laughing and smiling as she trails behind him, evading inconvenient trees. He wants to sing her reckless serenade about her smile while her teeth are chattering frantically with frosty winds, but for now, he hauls her up the rickety ladder of the treehouse.
His hair is extremely dishevelled; it had fought a hopeless battle with the fall wind. His cheeks are red, but more out of shameless gallantry than cold. She tells him he's adorable; his cheeks are a little redder. His freckles are no longer distinguishable.

"It's lovely out." she says simply, and out the makeshift window of the treehouse, the sky is a quixotic purple, stars peeking out from behind curtains of black.

"I s'pose." he says diffidently, because nature has never really interested, nor would it ever again. He had enough 'nature' on the hunt for the horcruxes. She knows what he's thinking, and a tiny little melodic laugh escapes from between her perfectly rosy lips.

She settles back against the rickety wall of the treehouse, but she doesn't care. Even if she did fall through, she could count on Ron to catch her. After all, how many times had he been there to save her?

"I love you, Mione."

Also, he's the only one she would ever permit to call her 'Mione'. That was enough on its own.
The phrase rings in her ears, and she almost forgets to breathe and respond.

"I love you too, Ron."

Ron subconsciously inches closer to her as she breathes a little too steadily – just calm down, Hermione, get a grip – and she can smell cologne and sweat on his neck, and suddenly it isn't possible to get a grip.
He can feel his heart jump in his chest, almost wanting to tear its way out of his chest, sharp like a knife, but with her lips pressing and smoothing against his, his brain forgets to function.

He tastes her wonderfully-tangerine-flavoured lip-gloss, and he wonders when Hermione started wearing makeup, and then he stops wondering because her hands are sliding oh-so-low down his back, and then he starts wondering how he got her on her back.
She gives him hurried kisses that spark up like eckeltricity, or whatever the devil it's called, and merlin, he loves this girl.
And he tastes like a dash of spearmint, a sprinkle of honey and dollops of insatiable lovelovelove.

It was only natural that they fell into the pattern of kissing one another in rushed moments, but they would claim all the touching was only for warmth, but that was just to Harry and Ginny. After all, winter was right around the corner.

It's like she takes him home in the night, even though she's staying at his place. They rush back to the burrow, lights flashing for a moment before they turn out.
As always, Hermione's straight to the point when she grabs his hand and pulls him behind the locked bedroom door and pins him against his bed, warm light glowing warmer as it ricochets off of his violently orange walls.
His heart almost stops, because Hermione is absolutely, undeniably, wholly and completely beautiful.

Not that he just noticed it.

Voracious hands grace skin in the slowest, most hurried moment. Possibly the biggest paradox of both of their lives, because Hermione granger is smart and rational, Ron is immature and unprofessional and love is for adults.

So it doesn't quite make sense, but rationality isn't always right.

There's noise in their ears, noisenoisenoise that's loudloudloud, and it's a tap leaking, or something like that. Drops of water falling steadily, or their syncopated heartbeats at the same time. Hermione could twist the tap to turn the water off, but no matter how tightly screwed, it keeps dripping like it's got its own will.

Their love for each other. Love. Not a crush, a fling, a lust, a benefit. There is no "it will fade away in time." there is no "if you ignore it will become a distant memory." there's no off switch for the eckeltricity that flows between their entwined fingers and connecting lips.

They pull away for a mere, satisfying second to look at each other, and Ron's holding his breath for the least of a reason. all-encompassing silence is what follows, though not awkward; just a burning sensation beating against her temples and a soft ringing in his ears drives him crazy – just kiss me again, Hermione – she drives him crazy. Life pauses for all of five seconds and she exhales as though breathing has no meaning.

She's wearing his despised maroon R jumper though it doesn't fit, but for simple sentimental value. He's too big to fit in her arms, but she holds him anyways, for detailed sentimental value.

"I love you, 'Mione."

"I love you too, Ron."