AN: My very first HP fanfiction (but not my very first fanfiction, not by a long stretch)! Yes, I write other fanfiction, but under a different screenname :)

I recently started re-reading the HP books, and it struck me that there's a trail of breadcrumbs left by JKR through the whole series about Ron and Hermione's mutual feelings of more than friendship. Yes, I'm saying that they liked each other probably from the first time they laid eyes on each other. This will be seven chapters long--one book a chapter. And we'll see one scene from each book, from both Ron and Hermione's point of view. Because let's face it, Harry is often preoccupied and doesn't see what's really going on--plus these two are masters are hiding their feelings.

First chapter is, of course, HP & the Sorcerer's Stone. The scene? Professor Flitwick's class, of course. No, I will NOT be picking the most obvious scene from each book--rather a scene that particularly speaks to me or one that I haven't scene done very often.

"Even better, Professor Flitwick announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly . . .Ron, however, was to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to tell whether Ron or Hermione was angrier about this . . .Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of class." (Harry Potter & the Sorcerer's Stone, pg. 170 - 171).

Hermione Granger always considered herself a very rational being, thank you very much. Her parents, while not medical doctors in the strictest sense, raised with her with a very strong sense of logic. However, she could not exactly blame them for the tiny spark of imagination and whimsy that was seemingly lodged deep in a corner of her heart. They were, after all, dentists and not technically doctors. She decided that this must be the explanation for why that slight fancy for something outrageous and illogical remained.

It was that dark corner of her soul that jumped for joy the day her Hogwarts letter came. At the very first, she'd been terrified that her parents would say no. Would laugh. Would scoff. Would insist that it was some sort of ridiculous prank played on by the children Hermione went to school with. After all, they were always participating in such things, she reminded herself as she stood in front of her parents, letter outstretched with a slightly trembling hand.

Her mother had taken the letter, the stiff thick parchment rustling as she did so, and she'd read it, her face a perfect blank the entire time. Hermione had died a thousand deaths in that thirty seconds that had seemed more like an hour--even though she objectively knew that one couldn't really die without some sort of physical injury and time was really quite static--thirty seconds was just thirty seconds, after all. She would remember later with a nostalgic smile how very little she had known back then.

She'd given Hermione a hesitant smile, clearly not knowing what to make of such an invitation--which was not a surprise since Hermione herself did not know quite what to make of it--and had told her that she'd discuss the possibility of Hogwarts with her father.

Hermione hadn't been able to sleep that night. She'd tossed and turned restlessly, alternatively trying to talk herself into falling asleep and straining to make out the words in her parents' hushed conversation. They'd stayed up late, talking, and Hermione had too, finally abandoning all hope of sleeping and just sitting on her bed cross-legged, watching the light shining from underneath the door.

The next morning she'd approached the kitchen table like it was a tribunal and her mother was a judge, ready to pronounce her fate. Imagination, she'd reminded herself, was just a poor substitute for reality. She wouldn't realize until a few months later how true that really was.

She and her father had discussed the possibility, her mother had said, and they were both extremely proud of her at being admitted to such a prestigious school with such a history. And yes, they would let her attend.

The sweet, hot joy that spiraled through her at this pronouncement was not equaled until she was on the Hogwarts Express, hurtling towards her new destiny. She'd been prowling the corridors of the train, obstinately to help Neville look for his frog, but in reality because she was too excited to sit still. She'd caught a glimpse of red-hot ginger hair out of the corner of her eye and she'd turned towards the compartment in interest. The moment she came face to face with Ron Weasley for the very first time, that small, insignificant portion of her heart that she'd reserved for mere flights of fancy had burst into life, an essentially barren wasteland suddenly and magically transforming into garden filled with exotic flowers.

Even though that entire day, her very first at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was full of incomparable delights and excitements--the trip across the lake, the first glimpse of the lights shining out of Hogwarts Castle, the Sorting Hat and being chosen for Gryffindor, the first encounter with Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Lady, and certainly not least of all. . .magic--when Hermione thought of that day, what she remembered most clearly was that first undeniably magical moment when she laid eyes on Ron Weasley.

At the time, she'd been mortified. He'd been attempting an obviously incorrect spell on his pet rat, and so she'd covered up her embarrassment by criticizing his magical technique and then attempting to make herself memorable by telling both Ron and Harry how smart she was. Naturally, this had been the wrong tactic and she should have known, she'd thought later, sitting alone and dejected in her empty compartment. The kids at her old, Muggle school had never been impressed by book learning. And someone like Ron, who was cool enough to have Harry Potter for a friend, certainly wouldn't be impressed by someone memorizing their books before they were even required to open them.

Everyone, she'd realized later, had always had it wrong when it came to Ron. They'd always believed that somehow Ron must have hit the jackpot to have Harry Potter pick him for a friend. What they failed to realize was that it was instead Harry who was the real lucky one.

She would rather die a thousand deaths than ever admit it, but that first conversation in the train, she'd been rather unimpressed by Harry and instead, she'd been totally bowled over by his red-headed companion. What took everyone else a ridiculously long time to see, she'd noticed in a mere instant.

Unfortunately for Hermione though, she was never very good at getting her meaning across to children her own age, and when it came to Ron, she was even worse.

He was not only totally unimpressed by her magical knowledge, he seemed to actively dislike her for it. She'd been over the moon excited when Professor Flitwick had assigned her as Ron's partner the day they were to perform their first charm. Her heart had beat unnaturally fast in her chest, and she tried to convince herself that it was because she was about to perform her very first magic.

Deep down, though, she knew that her nearly unbearable excitement had almost nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the red-headed boy who was currently scowling at her. She told herself that this expression had nothing, nothing, to do with his feelings about being her partner. Any other day, she might not have been able to convince herself, but today, she sang inside, was going to be perfect. Magical, even. The fantasy-craving part of her was out in full force and there was nothing she could do to tamp it down.

In fact, she didn't even want to.

She gave Ron a hesitant smile, trying to communicate some of the happiness she felt at him being made her partner, but instead he ignored her and picked up his wand, flapping his arms about like an overgrown bird. Not only did his wand technique leave something to be desired, she thought critically, he also managed to pronounce the charm completely wrong.

And she, because she was after all still a Granger, couldn't bear to sit there and watch him fail. Watching his frustration mount couldn't be worse than him thinking she was a know-it-all. So she corrected him.

"You're saying it wrong," Hermione said insistently, her tone perhaps a tad bit. . .stronger than she'd intended it to be. "It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

Ron looked up from his feather at her words, his arms falling to his sides, wand dangling from his fingertips, but instead of beaming at her in gratitude for her help like she'd dreamt he would, he was glaring.

Hermione nearly recoiled in horror at the belligerent, nearly nasty, expression on his face. Her stomach slowly sank to the floor as he snapped back at her, "You do it, then, if you're so clever."

Somehow, she'd made a horrible miscalculation--her, Hermione, who had never had things go so wrong before. Ron hadn't been pleased at all to be her partner, and even worse, she'd tried to help him get the spell right because she wanted him to succeed, and now he hated her even more. Everything, she'd thought fatalistically, staring at those angry blue eyes, had somehow failed despite all her best efforts. That wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. When she applied herself, she always succeeded. Every single time except today.

But Grangers, she told herself, didn't give up, fighting the part of her brain that was snapping at her to stop now and fix this with Ron before she pushed him too far. Instead, she steeled herself against the way the hurt grew at the dislike in his eyes and raised her wand, the sleeves of her robes shifting. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Her swish and flick was textbook perfection and her words enunciated with a crisp tone. If there was one thing she could do, she thought fatalistically, it was this. Boys, on the other hand, seemed to be totally beyond her.

The feather lifted off the table, and her joy at finally finding an outlet for all that power that had always raced through her veins was somehow diminished by the even angrier looks Ron was now shooting her. She shifted the feather around the room with another flick of her wand, catching the professor's attention.

"Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. "Everyone see here, Miss Granger's done it!"

Oh, she'd done it alright, Hermione thought, glancing at the annoyance mounting in Ron's expression. He'd never like her now.

The first day of Hogwarts was something that Ronald Bilius Weasley had been looking forward to well. . .for forever. He just knew it was going to be brilliant, and the way his brothers had talked about Hogwarts had only solidified this absolute fact in his mind. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could ruin his happiness on this first day.

So far, he thought as he sat a compartment with the Harry Potter and they shared an enormously large, sugar-filled tea, he had been right. It'd been perfect. Each thing that fell into place and swung his way convinced him more and more that he would get on grandly at Hogwarts.

And then, she burst into the compartment, all frizzy hair and big brown eyes and haughty attitude. He wanted to dislike her on sight. She was a girl, wasn't she? He was honor bound to hate her. To do anything else would be an affront to all men, everywhere.

Except that well. . .he didn't hate her. He couldn't. Not when she was staring at him with such undisguised interest. He couldn't even hate her after she insulted him, which, if he had anything to say about it, proved that the excitement of finally going to Hogwarts had made him mental. And really, he thought to himself with disgust, had he ever wanted to succeed at anything the way he'd wanted to when she challenged him to "let's see it?"

He'd wanted to show her. And well, to show off a little too. His own disappointment seemed to be mirrored on her face as the spell failed with only a small puff of smoke. He told himself that it wasn't important and that he could care less about impressing her, a silly first year girl with teeth that were far too big for her mouth, but he knew he was lying.

They introduced themselves and he was sure that she would instantly forget he existed and switch her attention to Harry. To his gobsmacked astonishment, she still stared at him, even after meeting Harry. If anything, that just convinced him once and for all that she was mental--even more mental than him. Why would anyone want to talk to him when they could talk to Harry Potter?

Then of course, she'd been sorted into Gryffindor with him and Harry. If anything could have ruined his happiness at becoming the millionth Weasley to become a Gryffindor, it was the fact that would now have to face her every single day, in every single class, her superior expression taunting him with everything that she knew that he didn't. Any hope that he could avoid her--and avoid the stinking feelings she roused in him--was now lost, and he steadfastly ignored the tiny part of his heart that seemed to cheer along with the rest of the Gryffindor table when she was sorted.

The first time he really had to deal with her was on his own was, ironically, the day of their first magic. It was Charms with Professor Flitwick, and they'd been assigned as partners. He scowled at her when they'd been paired, trying to hide from everyone and maybe even himself, that he was cheering again. Just the way he'd cheered when she'd put her foot down and insisted she accompany him and Harry to the midnight duel with Malfoy. You had to admire a girl who didn't take no for an answer, even if she was a bloody pain in the rear.

Cheering. At being paired with a girl. He must be mental. There was no other explanation.

The spell seemed simple enough, he'd seen his family wave their wands his entire life, and he couldn't deny the power that seemed to rocket through him every time he picked up his own wand. It would be easy, no big deal. Except that he tried, and tried and tried again--failing utterly each time he swung his wand. Ron couldn't decide which was worse: that he was failing at magic or that he was failing at magic in front of Hermione.

The latter, he decided, when she corrected him, her voice butting into his endless round of internal arguments. It was bad enough that he couldn't do it. It was worse than she was the one to tell him that he was failing because he was doing it wrong.

He wanted to sink through the floor in embarrassment. How could he have ever thought that it would be simple and easy? Or that he could even hope to impress someone as bright as Hermione? He wasn't brilliant like Percy or funny like the twins or even a great Quidditch player like Charlie. He supposed that all this meant he'd also be awful at impressing a girl like Hermione--not that she even could be impressed. Mental, that one was.

Except that it wasn't even a bad kind of mental. In fact, he found that he rather liked it. At least when she wasn't trying to show him up, which she did almost immediately after he challenged her to do better.

He was still sulking when Harry and him walked out of the classroom. Harry mentioned how well Hermione had done, and he'd only groaned that she was a nightmare--except that he was mentally altering the statement to say that instead, he was the nightmarish one. He couldn't even perform one easy charm to impress her. Instead, he'd failed spectacularly and in the face of her rather admirable success, he felt even worse about it. She'd never like him now.

Then Harry said something that made him downright nauseous. "I think she heard you," he observed, as Hermione rushed past them, her head down, her feet pattering over the cobblestones of the courtyard.

Ron knew Harry was watching him, waiting to see if he cared that he'd hurt her feelings. And because she was already out of sight and he'd already messed up badly and it couldn't get much worse, he just shrugged and said, "So?"

Except that he wasn't shrugging in his head. In his head, he was screaming at himself. Rather loudly. He'd never meant for Hermione to hear that. He thought of all the nice things he thought of her--that she was mental but in a ridiculously adorable way, that she stood down Malfoy every chance she could, how she always had every answer--and he groaned inside that instead of all those things, she'd instead heard the stupid thing he'd said to look cool to Harry and to cover up for his own failure.

Hours later at dinner, she was still missing. He hadn't said a word about it to Harry, but it had been an almost constant litany in his head. Every time he saw brown hair, he thought his heart might stop, but it was never her. She, he realized, would never forgive him, even if he asked her--which he wasn't going to. He'd be the laughingstock of the school if he apologized to a girl.

Because then everyone would think that he liked her.

Which he did.

Instead of focusing on this rather obvious and rather unfortunate fact, Ron tried to turn his attention back to his full plate, but he found that for the first time in as long as he could remember, he just wasn't hungry.

And then he overheard Lavender Brown telling Parvati Patil that Hermione was in the girl's bathroom. Crying.

Prat, he yelled at himself, she's moping in the bathroom over something you said that you didn't even mean.

Ron was trying to decide if he should go tell her so, when Professor Quirrrell ran into the Great Hall, end of his turban flying and his eyes hysterical. Stuttering out that there was a troll in the dungeons, he proceeded to pass out.

Mass hysteria overtook the students, and even Ron managed to forget for half a second that Hermione hated him, but they were on their way to the Gryffindor Common Room when he suddenly remembered her. Alone. In the girls' bathroom. Alone. With a troll on the loose.

Ron was in the middle of debating with himself whether he should even mention it to Harry, when he suddenly grabbed his arm.

"I've just thought—Hermione."

Argue, Ron told himself, don't let Harry know that you're nearly sagging with relief that he remembered.

"What about her?" Ron asked, trying for belligerent.

"She doesn't know about the troll." From the way that Harry was looking at him like he was the most insensitive boy ever, Ron knew that he'd managed to convince him that he didn't care about Hermione at all. He just had to keep it up now. That wouldn't be hard at all. In fact, Ron told himself, the more he pretended he didn't like her, the more likely it would be to come true. Like a prediction of sorts.