A/N: A missing-moments fic; starts in the Trio's second year. Romance builds gradually.

Disclaimer: If I owned HP, the last book would've been so very different. No ownage, profit, ya ta ta, now bugger off and read the fic.


Year Two: Initiation


Ron was befuddled.

He'd first heard the word a few years ago, and right after hearing it, he'd decided that he rather liked it. Had a nice ring to it. Even sounded all thick and murky. Nice word, that. Befuddled.

And that was what he was.

Hermione wasn't. Downright bloody definite, she was. Sitting perfectly upright in the chair across from him, arms folded snugly across her chest, staring at him. A bit unsettling, that. She hadn't looked away. Wasn't blinking. So he did.

"What?"

"Play chess with me," she repeated, just as demandingly.

Slowly, Ron closed his Potions book, torn between continuing to be befuddled and shrugging it off. He chose the former.

"Hermione, you hate Wizard's chess. 'Barbaric', as I recall."

"Yes, well, I've had a change of heart." She was starting to sound impatient. "Come on, I want to play you."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." He slid out of his chair, retrieved the ragged old board from his dormitory, and returned to the table. He removed the pieces and motioned for them to set themselves up.

"Hope you're well prepared to lose, Hermione."

She glared. "I've watched you play Harry and your brothers long enough. I know your style, and I know how to beat you. I can beat anybody at this."

"Oh, so that's it. It's not good enough that you're already top of every class, you want to be the school champion at Wizard's chess now." She said nothing, only nudged a straying pawn back onto its square. "Well, you won't win, Hermione. You can't beat me."

"Oh, yes, I can." A self-assured smile crossed her face.

He snorted. "Prove me wrong, then. Go on."

Ten minutes later, when his bishop knocked Hermione's king over the head and gave a tiny yell of triumph, Hermione was scowling.

"Go on, then. Say it." He was grinning smugly, arms folded behind his head. He tilted his chair back onto two legs. "You're bad at something."

"I am not!" she shrilled, her hair seeming to fluff up more than usual in defiance.

"Suit yourself." He tilted further back, rocking slightly, and when he opened his eyes many seconds later she was still scowling at the chess board. He leaned forward, thumping the chair back onto all fours. "Want another match? You might get better with practice."

She wasn't mollified. "No," she said snootily, actually sticking her nose up in the air. "I'm done with chess tonight, I think."

"What's the matter? Afraid I'll slaughter you again?"

"Of course I'm not!"

But it was many weeks before she challenged him to a match again.