Playing Our Game
"Um. Hermione?" Look, I know I'm treading on thin ice here. I get that the only reason the girl's even speaking to me is 'cause I almost died last month, and I get that I'm in position to ask her favors. I get that. But this is important. I need help, and as much as I hate it, Hermione's the only one who can give it.
She looks up from the book she's been reading - Trigonometry and Transfiguration, she must be rereading it, 'cause I remember it from last summer…who does that? Who rereads books about Transfiguration and Maths during their spare time? Well. Hermione does, and she wouldn't be Hermione if she didn't, I suppose. But still. It is weird, right?
"Ron?" When she looks at me like that, with that funny crease between her eyes and the snappish tone in her voice, it always makes me feel like I'm bloody eleven years old again. And she knows that, and that's why she does it to me all the time. I hate that. But then it suddenly occurs to me, that, with the hair sticking up like Dobby's been dancing it, and that ridiculously grown-up facial expression, she just looks…funny. And sort of pretty.
Oh, who am I kidding? She looks bloody fantastic. She's grown into looking like a girl –a woman, I reckon, if you think about it, 'cause there's nothing 'girlish' around her, not Lavender girlish, anyway- and she's grown into looking…comfortable with being a girl. I mean, the reason I was maybe a little oblivious to the fact that she was a girl up to fourth year (although honestly never more than a little) was 'cause she was hiding it so damn well.
"Ro-on? Did you need anything?" She snaps, and I can't help but grin.
"Yeah, actually," I say, glad she's put it that way, "I, well… I need your help." Why? Why does it feel so ridiculous to say that? It never used too, I used to beg her to go over stuff I hadn't picked up in class, and it never made me feel like I was…failing at being a bloke, or whatever.
"My help?" That look- that's why I feels stupid. Because of that look of hers- that look of cold, calculating victory, like we're playing chess and I just opened up and now she can checkmate me with her queen, and she's going to love every moment of it. And now I'm supposed to have some brilliant move up my sleeve, because I am the better chessplayer, and even when she thinks she's got me checkmated, I can get out of it, and that –depending on her mood, and the move- will leave her either giggly and breathless, or furious at me for the rest of the week.
As a rule, the truly brilliant chess moves are the ruthless ones. And those are usually the ones I pull on Hermione on these situations, and usually it leaves both of us with a bad feeling. Her, 'cause she doesn't like loosing and doesn't like being hurt –or rather, admitting I can hurt her- and me, 'cause winning never feels right with Hermione. That's what Lavender was. A move in the chess game. Yeah, okay, that's not totally true, she was more than that, and she was more than the snogging for like a split second, too, but…
I'm so bloody tired of playing this game.
"Hermione," I say, crouching down next to her, keeping my voice low. Her eyes widen in surprise, and it occurs to me that I'm pretty close to her face. Like, really close. I can see the way her lashes are tumbled and tangled and the way the crease between her eyebrows, even when she's not frowning, leaves a tiny little mark. And I can, for the first time in months, smell Hermione- parchment and apples and fire wood, when I smelt that Amortentia thing for the first time, I couldn't believe it. "Hermione," I whisper, smiling at her widening eyes, the blooming blush on her cheeks. "You're the cleverest person I've ever met, you're better at Transfiguration that McGonagall, probably, and you're my best friend. And things just don't make sense when you're not around to help me get them. So Hermione…" I pause, meeting her eyes, look right into them, and finish, "Can you help me with my homework?"
For a second, I think I've gone too far. But then Hermione bursts out laughing, and hearing that sound, I can't help join in, settling down on the couch next to her as she moves into a half-leaning position and tucks her toes under my legs, laughing all the while. We exchange another look, and this time, she gets it. Checkmate.