They had another fight; a meaningless fight over nothing important. But he told her he never wanted to see her again. The words just came out of his mouth. She looked at him, invisible tears in her eyes. She never said a word as she walked out of the door. She closed it quietly, letting the click of the latch convey all the meaning she couldn't say with words. He let her leave. It was stupid of him, but he let her go just the same.
And now he walked around the city pondering why it was bothering him so. It was her hands that he remembered first. The ink stained fingers as they unconsciously swept through her hair when she was frustrated. He shook his head. Why did she, who was so meticulous about looking proper, allow her fingers to stay in that state? In his mind he saw her leaned over a bit of parchment, her nose not inches away from the quill that was scribbling notes fast and furiously. Splatters of ink found its way to random parts of her body. A spot on her cheek, a stain on her stockings; she decorated herself with ink where other girls would put make-up.
He ran a hand through his hair, smiling at the thought. Every girl he had met had him unconsciously looking for those splatters. They were no where to be found. He soon grew tired of the perfect girls. His friends thought he was insane, but the truth was that he craved the splatters. They were imperfections, proof that beneath the beautiful façade there was a human being underneath. A human being that he could share his own imperfections with.
A light rain began to fall. His red hair lay damp on his forehead. He barely noticed. A thought was nagging at his mind. What was it about her that caused him to go crazy? Was it just the ink splatters? He leaned against the nearest building, lost in thought. He missed her, that was certain. He wanted to hear her voice telling him off, scolding him for the smallest thing he did wrong. It irritated him, but it was comforting somehow. Her scolding was something he could count on.
Just like he could count on the ink.
He pounded his fists on the brick in frustration. For years he'd been mulling the same questions over and over in his mind. Why was she in his thoughts? Why did he care so much when she cried? Why did he look for meaningless splotches of equally meaningless colors on flawless skin?
In short, why did he love her so much that he tortured himself into believing he didn't?
"Ron?" a voice said, shattering his inner monologue. He looked up and saw her standing opposite him, heading in the direction he just came. Ron walked slowly over to her.
"Hermione, I'm sorry," he said, reaching out to her. "I…I didn't mean-" he started, but she shushed him and put her hand on his lips. She smiled softly, her hand reaching up to brush his cheek.
"Freckles," she murmured to herself. Ron stared blankly at her, not knowing what she meant. But then it dawned on him. He laughed and pulled her close to him, pulling her fingers to eye level.
"Ink splatters," he replied.
In the rain, the two kissed for the first time.