Thump, smack. Thump, smack.
Ron heaved the battered red quaffle to the ceiling with both hands from his position flat on his back. His narrow bed frame creaked with the effort of sending the almost-sphere thudding against the planks of the ceiling, the ball rebounding back towards his face before being intercepted by his waiting hands.
The rhythmic motions were comfortingly mindless; it was a habit he had a tendency to fall into when he was thinking - well, brooding might be more accurate - on things that confused or unsettled him. Which meant he had been doing it a fair bit in the few weeks since he had finished his fourth year at Hogwarts, much to the displeasure of the ghoul living above him, who preferred to make his own noise on the whole. He just needed to muddle out problems on his own, away from the prying, perceptive eyes of his family. And lately nothing felt more of a muddle than his feelings for one Hermione Granger.
Thump, smack. Thump, smack.
He was prepared, at this point, to admit to himself that he fancied her. He had spent the better part of nine months pretending that wasn't the case, that the attraction he felt toward her was purely hormonal and that the rather, er, stimulating dreams he had of her at unnervingly frequent intervals were a completely meaningless reaction to puberty. He had even, at times, argued to his own heart that the blind rage he felt at seeing her with Krum was because he was protective of her, because he thought of her as something of a sister -
Right. Even his own insides weren't buying that rubbish anymore.
Seeing her with Krum…
THUMP, SMACK.
That git.
He was pretty sure that she wasn't going to Bulgaria, anyway - he had watched them as closely as he could on the train platform and Viktor hadn't looked particularly happy at anything she had said. Ha! Served him right for asking a fifteen-year-old girl that he barely knew to come stay with him at his house in a foreign country. Ron could invite her to stay of course, that was completely different. And she said she would, so there was that. But there was also that kiss on the cheek she gave to Harry...
But Harry didn't feel that way about her - at least, he didn't think so. It was hard, sometimes, to tell what Harry was feeling. Harry didn't talk about her as if he did, when girls were being discussed in the Gryffindor dorms. No one really talked about her, actually, except Seamus, but Seamus talked about every bird in the school, and even Seamus really only seemed to talk about her to get a rise of him. Which was alarming, because that meant Seamus must be able to guess the kinds of things he thought about her, and how could Seamus know that?
He never talked about her that way, in those types of conversations. He studiously avoided mentioning anything about her, lest anyone cotton on to his hidden feelings, which he was pretending he didn't have. And he thought he had been pretty slick at concealing it, all things considered. Fred and George knew, obviously - or thought they knew, or knew enough to to take the piss constantly, which itself was nothing new. And they always stopped just before she was in ear shot, or just out of her line of sight - but she was cleverer than they were, and if she should catch them at it...
Thump, smack. Thump, smack.
The rhythmic noise coincided with feet thundering up the stairs.
"Ron, mum says you need to bring down your laundry," his sister called, banging loudly on the door at the same time. "She says we could have to leave at any moment and she needs to wash all your things."
"I will, I will," Ron answered, not bothering to keep the bored irritation out of his tone.
"Well, you'd better do it because no one else is going to touch your manky pants!"
"Piss off, Ginny!" he retorted, noting with satisfaction her indignant huff and footsteps retreating down the stairs.
His mind returned to the issue at hand. So, he fancied his best friend. As long as it took him to come to terms with it, this information seemed much less important than the accompanying question: was it possible that she fancied him as well?
Thump, smack. Thump, smack.
His knee-jerk response was… no. Why would she? It's not like she didn't have options, this year proved that if nothing else. She had the most famous bloke in school asking her to holiday with him - well, the second-most, he supposed Harry still ranked number one in celebrity and of course he was always right there, too. She was brilliant, and brave - gods she was brave - and she could be really fun to be around when she relaxed a bit. Not to mention that she was… well, she was a girl, with all that went with that. And yes, she looked pretty - beyond pretty - at the Yule Ball, but come to think of it, she looked pretty all the time, really. There was something about the shape of her eyes and the curve of her mouth and the expressions she made that were just attractive to him because they were hers. He didn't really understand why, he just knew it to be true.
And he was Ron, just Ron - the last, unremarkable Weasley male, nothing to make him stack up or stand out. Not a champion or the Chosen One or a quidditch star. No special talents (save chess - did girls like chess? Hermione was a singular girl with intellectual pursuits, it was true, but he wasn't sure even she would get that hot and bothered about chess), no money, and certainly nothing to distinguish him in the looks department, from what he could tell.
But there were times when he could feel… whatever it was that was between them, the thing that made interactions with her so different from interactions with Harry or anyone else. When they were laughing together, the way she'd bump his shoulder when he teased her or her eyes would open just a little bit wider when he surprised her with a clever joke and he'd feel a bit lightheaded. Or when they'd argue and all her intensity was fixed on him, her eyes flashing dangerously, his heart thumping, both of them searching for that next verbal score. He thought… he thought she might feel it, too, in those moments. It was like no one else was there - like everything disappeared except the two of them. Come to think of it, quite a few of the dreams had started out like that as well...
Thump, smack. Thump, smack.
The inescapable fact remained: she was his friend - one of his best friends. He'd fallen out with her before and it wasn't pretty. And he had experienced again first-hand what it was like to row with your best mate this year, which was equally miserable. If he made a move and she didn't have any romantic feelings for him… well. That'd be it then. How could you go back to being friends after that? You couldn't. It'd be too strange, and beyond awkward. There was Harry to consider, too - he'd hate being stuck in the middle if their friendship was over. Would he have to split time, as Hermione did this year? Gods, what a mess. No, he couldn't risk it, didn't dare to be open about the way he felt - not unless he was really, really sure she might feel the same way. And truly, he knew bugger-all about girls, so he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to tell if she was really interested in him, which she probably wasn't.
She was, she wasn't, he was, he wasn't…. bollocks, it was like one of those bloody Sphinx riddles Bill had told him about. Well, Bill and then Harry, seeing as Harry had had to face an actual Sphinx and solve the actual riddle before it actually killed him. And that was another thing!
Thump, smack. Thump, smack.
Bloody hell, why was he even spending so much time thinking about this shite when the actual, physical Dark Lord had returned to the flesh and was out there, somewhere, at this very moment, plotting to destroy everything he held dear?! When his best mate was stuck with those effing rubbish muggles, dealing with who even knew what kind of trauma after watching Cedric's murder and the Dark Lord rise? Why, with everything else there was to worry about and fear, did his brain keep reverting back to her, to their relationship, replaying mundane interactions, looking for meaning where there probably was none?
Knock, knock, knock.
"Bleeding hell, I said bugger off!" he yelled in irritation, sending the quaffle toward the ceiling again with a particularly strong push.
"Ron?"
A voice that definitely did not belong to Ginny drifted uncertainty through the wood of his door. Ron started as if galvanized by an electric current, his long limbs flailing as he hastily tried to push himself up. The quaffle came down awkwardly on the side of his head in the confusion, causing him to curse loudly.
"Ron, are you alright? Can I come in?"
"Yeah, yeah - come in," he blurted, finally extricating himself from the bed clothes and launching himself toward the door. He wrenched the door open and Hermione tumbled in, having apparently turned the knob to enter at the same moment.
He let out a small oof as she rocketed into him, throwing her hands up against his torso to arrest her momentum. Looking down, she seemed even smaller in comparison to him, although he had only seen her a few weeks before. She blinked up at him for a moment, looking a bit dazed, before finding her feet and stepping back quickly with reddening cheeks.
As the silence threatened to stretch into awkwardness, Ron groped for something to say.
"Er, you're here," he said dumbly, rubbing the back of his neck as he cringed internally. "I mean, you're here early. I thought you were meant to come tomorrow."
"Yes, that's true," Hermione replied, nervously tucking a curl behind her ear. Her eyes darted around the room and Ron thought uncomfortably about his messy, unmade bed, wondering what she thought he'd been doing when she knocked. "Your dad was supposed to collect me tomorrow, but my parents were going out of town and so they all arranged for me to come today." She twined her fingers together. "So, I'm here. For now. Your mum said we're all leaving soon, do you know where we are going?"
"Nah, she won't tell us anything and we haven't been able to find out. Not for lack of trying, though, we've been at it for days - me and Ginny and the twins, that is," he explained. "Fred and George've…"
She interrupted him with a small cry, her face full of concern. "Ron! What happened?" she asked, reaching toward him.
He could only stare in wonder and a small thrill of apprehension as her hand moved slowly toward his face. Was she going to… stroke him? Touch his hair? Was he supposed to reciprocate somehow?
Just as the pads of her fingers brushed the raised skin above his temple, she seemed to realize her action and snatched her hand back, blushing.
"Oh, that," Ron said hoarsely, realizing the cause of her outcry. "It's just a knot. It's from… well, a quaffle… nevermind." He cleared his throat, feeling his face flush. "It feels fine, actually, I know it probably looks…"
"Oh no," she interrupted, "you look great! I mean," she stammered, "it looks great. Fine, it looks fine."
Her words echoed in his ears as he stared at her, unbelieving. His heart hammered as the tiny pink tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Gulping, he opened his mouth to say something even though his brain hadn't remotely worked out how to respond.
"Ron, laundry! I won't say it again!"
Ron jumped as his mother's magically magnified voice reverberated through the charged atmosphere. He winced and chanced a look at Hermione, who was avoiding his eyes.
"Actually, I should go say hello to your sister. I put my things in her room, but I haven't even seen her yet!" she rattled out with forceful enthusiasm, glancing at the door. "And you can, er, get on with it."
"Hermione, wait!" he interjected, catching her wrist loosely as she turned to leave. She whirled around at his touch, looking up at him with wide eyes. Her skin felt warm and soft and was doing strange things to his insides, twisting them up even as he felt a surge of happiness. Was it natural, that something - or someone - could feel so thrilling and confusing and familiar and terrifying, all at once?
He dropped her wrist gently, digging his hands into the pockets of his denims. "I'm, uh, glad you're here," he muttered sincerely, looking at her through gingery eyelashes.
She looked surprised, but pleased nonetheless. "I'm glad, too," she answered softly, giving him a smile that was worth all of Ginny's smug, knowing looks and the twins relentless teasing.
Then she was gone, her mass of curls disappearing down the steep attic steps. Ron inhaled the faint, bewitching scent she always seemed to leave behind and considered that this might be the year to be a little daring after all.