A/N: This was written for the 2019 Romione Fluff Fest on Tumblr for the prompt "It was two years ago" though the idea had been rolling around in my head for quite a while. Hope you like it!

"We ought to start packing tonight," Hermione had said, discreetly under her breath, as she and Ron had gathered up the dirty dinner plates from the table.

Ron had opened his mouth to argue - they had loads of time, they weren't even leaving to fetch Harry from the Dursleys for another two days, and wouldn't they want his input? - but then had thought better of it. Given the choice between time spent with Hermione, regardless of the activity, and - well, anything, really - he would choose Hermione a thousand times over.

So they had taken a box of unassembled wedding favors - some fancy little candies that were meant to be packed into little mesh pouches and tied with a ribbon, the sort of thing that Ron thought nobody would even notice but his mum - and escaped to the relative peace and solitude of his bedroom. Within minutes, Hermione had upended both of their school trunks and was now making it her mission to sort through the resulting disaster, which had rapidly scattered itself to the corners of the tiny attic room.

This, Ron was content to watch, particularly as Hermione had just flung herself onto his bed, her stomach pressed flat against the Chudley Cannons quilt, and begun fossicking through the detritus behind his headboard. He hadn't a clue what she was looking for, but he didn't much care at the moment. Admittedly, these weren't exactly the circumstances he imagined whenever he would picture Hermione in his bed - which was quite often - but he would take it anyway. Her hair had flipped completely over her head, hanging in unruly curtains that just barely grazed the faded wood floor.

Leaning back on his palms, Ron crossed his legs at the ankles and observed as her face slowly, steadily reddened.

"You doing all right there?" he asked, biting back the laugh on the tip of his tongue.

"I'm fine," came her muffled response. "Your room is a mess, you know."

"Yeah, well, I don't even live here most of the year-"

"Exactly," she replied, still upside down. "Think how much worse would it be if you - oh, for God's sake," she exclaimed, and from under the bed came the unnerving sound of rustling parchment. Ron hadn't wrapped Harry's seventeenth birthday gift yet, and if she'd found it, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to explain…

But she popped up, hair a wild halo around her face, with a stack of fading parchments clutched in her hands.

"You've got essays from fourth year under there," she informed him as though she were accusing him of some horrific crime.

"Like you don't keep all your old essays-"

"I do, but I've got them organized in files by year, course, and subject matter-"

"Course you do," he chuckled. "Which one is that one?"

Hermione picked up a sheet from the pile on her lap. "Feeding Habits of Blast-Ended Skrewts," she read, which made Ron laugh again. "You got an Outstanding on it."

Ron shrugged. "Hagrid's an easy grader."

Had he blinked, he'd have missed it, but he thought an admonishing expression had crossed Hermione's face in response to his self-deprecation. But before he could do what he usually did, and overthink it, she picked up another thick stack, bound together with a metal clip.

"Is this your dream diary from Divination?"

"Oh, that's all rubbish," Ron said, though he sat up a little straighter, savoring her amusement as she scanned the pages. "I think I kept it because I thought it was funny."

"Did any of these predictions actually come true?"

"Well, they were made up dreams, so it'd be weird if they did."

Hermione - despite her long-standing belief that homework was to be approached with the utmost seriousness - let out a laugh of her own and set the dream diary aside.

"What's this?" she asked, now holding a yellowed, rough-edged scrap.

Ron's stomach flipped. "That? That's nothing."

"Really?" The look on her face was pure relish. "Because it looks like it says 'to Ron, from Viktor Krum' on it."

"You'd know his handwriting, wouldn't you?" he fired back.

Hermione's jaw dropped. "At least I'm not the one asking for autographs-"

"It was two years ago," he reminded, though he felt the familiar rush of blood into his face, "I'm a very different person now-"

"Yes, you are, so why have you kept it all this time?"

"He's a git," stated Ron, which only made Hermione laugh again, "but he's also the best Seeker in the world, that thing could be worth money. I should probably try to sell it, actually."

"It says 'to Ron' on it."

He waved a dismissive hand. "I'll just tear that bit off."

"I really can't believe you've kept this," she said, biting her lower lip despite the smile still stretched across her face.

"Yeah, and I also kept the Blast-Ended Skrewt essay, so what does that tell you?"

"That you need to clean your room."

"Yeah," Ron conceded. "Probably."

In all the bickering and back-and-forth between them, Hermione's hair had remained as messy as when she had first emerged from the depths behind Ron's headboard. Now, she raked her fingers through the thick locks, taming them, and Ron almost wished he wouldn't. Or, actually, he'd like to be the one running his own fingers through her hair, to have that freedom to touch her and know that she would welcome it. To know, without a doubt, where they stood.

He'd thought he had known, once. Suspected, anyway, that maybe she had seen something in him, seen him as something beyond just her goofy friend who borrowed all of her class notes, but then he had bungled it all up. It had taken months to restore even a semblance of a friendship, and now he was just happy to have her here with him. In his room.

On his bed.

"Know what," said Ron, rising to his feet, "I'll just take that actually-"

"Going to frame it?" Hermione teased.

"Throw it in the bin, more like-" And he made to grab it, but she yanked her hand out of his reach, leaning back toward the headboard. "Gimme it!"

"No!" Her small fist closed firmly around the scrap of paper, and without thinking, with realizing it, Ron knelt on the bed and closed his fingers around hers. "Thought you were selling it-"

"Can't if you keep crumpling it-"

Hermione released a shriek of laughter as Ron's fingers fumbled against hers, and before he knew it he had planted a hand on the mattress beside her hips and his long torso was leaning over hers and her face was close, so excruciatingly close to his, close enough to smell the treacle tart on her breath. Their eyes locked and slowly the smile slid from her face as she held his gaze… and he wanted to kiss her. He wanted so badly just to kiss her, and she was right there, but - but he couldn't, he knew the dozens and hundreds and thousands of reasons why he shouldn't…

"Fine." It took great force of will, but Ron managed to let go of her hand and drop down to sit on the bed, which bounced under his weight. "I give up. Why don't you just frame it in the sitting room so my brothers can all see it too?"

"I don't think it's an approved wedding decoration," said Hermione, deadpan as Ron chuckled again. She arranged herself to sit beside him, slim legs dangling off the edge of the bed. "It isn't as embarrassing as you think, you know, I really doubt you're the first person to ever ask for his autograph."

"No, it's still embarrassing," he said. "But it's not even that, it's just…"

Hermione tapped his ankle with her bare foot, and Ron's blood rushed just a little more quickly through his veins.

"What?"

"Nah, nothing."

"It was clearly something," said Hermione loftily, "or you wouldn't have started to say something."

She wasn't wrong, but it was easier said than done to just go spilling his heart out to her. Because if that was the sort of thing that came naturally to him, maybe he'd have already told her, and things might be so different. Maybe he wouldn't have wasted so much time and they wouldn't be here, on the precipice of an unknown and frankly terrifying journey with Harry, with him still biting his tongue.

Or maybe they'd be the same - or maybe so much worse - but at least then she would know what she meant to him.

"Well, it just-" Ron looked down at his legs, stretched across the narrow expanse of his childhood bed, parallel to hers. Merlin, they were sitting on his bed, of all places, and he still couldn't find the words. He still didn't know if he should. "It just reminds me of all the mistakes I've made."

"What do you mean? What mistakes?"

"Too many to count." He wasn't quite ready to meet her eyes, though he could feel her gaze on him, warm and intent. "I think back on the past couple years, and - and I just think I would do everything so differently."

The bedsprings squeaked as Hermione shifted, angling toward him, her knee bumping his leg. "Like what?" Her voice was oddly soft; Hermione was many things, but quiet was not one of them.

But he couldn't tell her, could he? That if he had a chance to do it all again, he'd actually ask her to the Yule Ball - and not as a half-joke in front of Harry, but really ask her, so she would know was serious, that she was his very first choice. Or if he'd just realized a little sooner that it didn't really matter if Hermione had ever snogged Viktor Krum, he could have avoided the whole mess that was his sixth year. He might have gone with her to that Christmas party and maybe… just maybe…

"Doesn't matter now, does it?" he said, rueful. "Not like I can go back and change anything."

"I suppose not." Hermione turned even closer to him, the length of her shin pressed against the side of his thigh. She made no effort to move, and the warmth of her touch drew nearly all his attention. "For what it's worth…" The very tip of her tongue snuck out to wet her lips. "There's a lot I would change too."

"I don't reckon you'll tell me what, will you?"

"Not if you won't tell me yours."

And all those things he regretted, they were things he hadn't done, things he hadn't said… and he decided he wasn't interested in adding to the list.

"Mine are all about you," he confessed, painfully aware that his face was turning an unpleasant shade of beetroot.

A slight flush entering her cheeks, Hermione opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Say something, Ron willed her. Anything. Please.

"Mine," she said, voice trembling, "mine are about you too-"

The knock that sounded at the door may well have been a cannon for the way it burst through the room.

"What?" snapped Ron, simultaneously bereft and furious at the sudden loss of the moment.

The door opened to reveal Ginny, whose brows rose for the briefest second at the sight before her.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, lips twitching, "but Lupin and Tonks and the rest of the Order are all downstairs. They want to talk about Harry."

Right. Of course.

"All right," sighed Ron. "We'll be there in a second."

Giving the cluttered room another scan, Ginny curled her lip in distaste. "You are such a slob."

And with that, she turned on her heel and set off down the hall.

"We'd better get down there," said Hermione, straightening out her legs and inching slowly off the bed. She seemed as reluctant as he felt to leave the sanctuary of his bedroom - he'd have gladly stayed there forever with her - but responsibility called.

As they left, Hermione bent and picked up the box of still-unassembled wedding favors, peeking inside at the spools of ribbon and gleaming candies.

"We didn't do anything we were supposed to," she lamented, looking up at Ron.

"S'alright," he said, letting her go before him on the narrow staircase. "We've got tomorrow, too."

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