disclaimer: not my characters. let's get on with it, now, shall we?
In all frankness, loud and flowery proclamations of love were highly overrated. So Hermione, for the life of her, couldn't figure out why, every time she so much as glanced at Ron (who wasn't the most eloquent bloke around), she pictured him on his knee professing his undying love for her.
It was unhealthy, really. Since when was she so imaginative? She was constantly rereading giant tomes and reciting obscure facts. Surely all of her bookishness should have left little room for daydreaming.
Unfortunately, Hermione Granger thought rather morosely, her brain was large enough to hold room for fact and fantasy.
For example
fact: The wizarding world is in grave danger due to the resurrection of the most evil man imaginable.
fantasy: It is not up to Hermione's best friend to save it.
fact: Hermione has wild bushy hair.
fantasy: Ron finds said ferocious hair endearing.
fact: Ronald Weasley is walking towards Hermione at this very moment.
fantasy: He is presently mustering the courage to (let's make this fantasy slightly realistic) stutter out his budding affection for her, hoping to Merlin he doesn't turn a shade of adorable red in the process.
Considering the analysis Hermione had just given her previous thought, she was shocked, to say the least, when she caught the tips of Ron's ears glowing as he sat next to her. It was a good thing, Hermione Granger thought, that she could at least separate fact from fantasy, otherwise she'd be squealing with glee in a rather embarrassing way.
Ron was still bundled up in his coat, scarf, and gloves from his snowball fight outside with Harry and Ginny. They had invited Hermione along, as well, but she declined in favor of the fireplace and her Arithmancy text.
" 'S bloody cold out," Ron said to her. His ears must have been red because he forgot his hat, she mused.
"Language, Ronald," came Hermione's auto-reply, as she waved to Harry and Ginny, who had just followed Ron into the common room.
Ron rolled his eyes and pulled off his wet gloves one at a time, tossing them so they landed closer to the fire.
One of the gloves landed on Ginny. "Ouch! Ron, please refrain from throwing wet garments across the room, you prat!"
"You're just bitter because the last snowball went down your shirt" Ron remarked, ignoring her rude hand gestures and smirking at her.
Hermione stifled a laugh and prepared to scold Ron and Ginny, but as soon as Ron held his hands up, as if to warm them with the flames, Hermione gasped.
"Ron! Your hands are all raw!" and she took one of them in between her own.
"Told you it was freezing," he mumbled in reply. Hermione began kneading some warmth into his hands, not to mention her own as well, ignoring the snickering coming from Harry and Ginny.
The longer Hermione kept Ron's hands within her own, she realized, the less he seemed to look straight at her. And misreading his nervousness for discomfort, she dropped his hands and glanced around the common room. It was deserted except for the two of them and a sleeping Harry on the armchair. Hermione vaguely wondered how long she had been sitting there with Ron.
"Why'd you stop?" Ron ventured a moment later.
Hermione felt the beginnings of a blush on her cheeks. "Well, you kind of, um, looked a little bit—"
"—I'm still cold." Both Ron and Hermione looked slightly surprised by his statement.
fantasy, fantasy, not fact, Hermione recited in her head, so as not to have her hopes come crashing down when he left with only a 'goodnight.'
"Okay," she whispered, and picked up one of the hands he held out to her.
"All over."
Distracted by the feeling of touching Ron's rough hands, Hermione looked at him. "What?"
A Pause. Ron looked straight back. "I'm cold all over."
She was floored by his boldness. "Oh."
What did he want her to do? Drape her entire body over his? Not that she would mind, but he probably would. Besides, by the look of him, he was far beyond cold. His entire face, plus most of his neck, looked like it was on fire.
"Okay," she whispered again, but, for lack of any appropriate ideas, didn't move at all.
Ron looked embarrassed, but pressed on. "Hermione, you—you're not . . . cold."
Trying to return some semblance of normalcy to the whole exchange, Hermione scoffed in her usual manner.
"Of course not. I've been sitting here all day while you've been out getting yourself drenched. It's no small wonder I'm warmer than you are."
"No, Hermione. That's not what I meant, and you know it."
"I did not know it. What's the matter with you, Ronald! What's going on?"
Ron sighed, looking defeated. "I don't know," he said in a low voice, almost as if to himself. "I meant that you're not cold and I am."
"Ron what—"
"—but you make me warm. It's like all of this going on with Harry and the war and the world makes me . . ."
He took a deep breath and started again. "I feel like . . . like nothing is ever right. Except you . . . You're right. And not just about facts, either."
Hermione held her breath. Her mind was running a million miles a minute. She wanted to say, and do, so many things, but she couldn't. She couldn't. It was like her brain put a hold on motor functions to accommodate the rush of feelings that was flowing through her.
Ron wasn't done though.
"I went to play in the snow today to feel a bit of warmth, only you didn't come. I wanted to have fun and pretend for a while. Pretend that Harry didn't have things to worry about that most grown men have never even heard of. Pretend that we're all just normal kids going through school. Pretend that I didn't—that you—pretend . . ."
It became increasingly hard for Ron to articulate his thoughts. He was looking down at his hands that were now in his lap from when Hermione dropped them in her shock. He was wringing them together.
Hermione thought that it was about time for her to take over.
"Ron?" He looked up. "Ron, I don't think I can say that I understand. I don't. I don't know how I can feel right to you, because I feel all wrong. And any kind of warmth that comes along is fleeting. No feeling of heat ever—"
"—stays put long enough, I know. Look, Hermione, I don't want to scare you, but I still need you to know that . . . know that—"
"yeah?" she urged in a quiet whisper.
"I need you." He finally managed to get out.
"I think I might love you. But even if I'm not there yet, I'm sure that I need you. You make the warmth stick and that's the most I've ever felt."
It was Hermione's turned to be floored. Confessions of love be damned, Ron's version was much more Ron, and because of that, it was beautiful.
Taking Hermione's failure to reply as a negative sign, Ron placed his hands on the cushions on either side of him, gathering the strength to leave her presence. Hermione, though, caught this, and grabbed one of his upper arms to stop him.
He looked at her. She looked back, and for the first time in months Hermione felt heat, real heat, wash over her body. Not superficial heat, like from a fire or hot cocoa, but penetrating warmth. It was then that she knew exactly what Ron was trying to tell her.
She leaned into his side, both arms clinging to Ron's shoulder. She took a deep breath and told him that she, too, needed his warmth, and maybe they could be warm together because she would really like that. Ron agreed.
When she kissed him for the first time in front of the fire that night, slow and calm, it felt like she was healing. He held her wild/endearing hair while she brought her legs onto to the couch so she could cup his neck and jaw. Fortunately, Hermione Granger thought rather contentedly, there was no clear definition of fact or fantasy. She soon lost herself in Ron's soothing heat as they clung to each other and shared kisses that held no small amount of promise.