To say Hermione Granger was an observant person would be an understatement.

From the moment she awoke in the morning till she went to sleep at night, Hermione made sure to always take time for the little things. And her being observant often paid off; she knew that the footnote at the end of the textbook may be the difference between a pass and a fail in transfiguration, she knew that every little thing that came from a professor's mouth could be the deciding factor between life and death. And she was constantly on guard for that little piece of information to save herself, Ron and Harry from mortal peril. Because, let's face it, those two were much more likely to just make things up as they went.

So really, it was no surprise that as she crossed the common room one sleepy evening in December, a splash of maroon caught her eye.

Immediately she knew what it was. Well obviously she did, how couldn't she? He got one every year, now didn't he? And hadn't he been wearing it yesterday?

He. Ron. One of her best friends.

Hermione would never understand how Ron could be so careless with his belongings, especially one as singularly wonderful as this. Did he not understand how much time and effort his mother had put into it? Did he not know just how much care and love was stitched into this one maroon sweater?

She shook her head, marveling at his oversight. She would give anything—anything—to be the recipient of a Weasley jumper.

To Hermione, a Weasley jumper was the ultimate symbol of acceptance. Being the owner of one meant that you would always be loved, always belong, and no matter how far you strayed, that you would always have a home to go back to.

A here it was, a prime example of said unconditional love, discarded on the floor.

She hugged it to her chest and inhaled deeply. It smelled like Ron.

Suddenly she didn't want to just hold it anymore. Smiling sheepishly, as if indulging in a guilty pleasure, she pulled the sweater over her head.

She flopped down on the couch, fully content. So this is what it felt like. Still smiling, she vaguely wondered how Mrs. Weasley kept it from being itchy and opened her book.

Merely a half hour later she was interrupted by the arrival of her two best friends. She smiled at the sight of the two clearly exhausted boys.

"How was Quidditch?"

"It's bloody awful when it's snowing." Ron grumbled, collapsing onto the couch beside Hermione.

"What?"

"I said it's snowing."

"No, Harry was looking at me strangely."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Ron, that's why I'm asking him." Hermione rolled her eyes.

The tips of Ron's ears went red. "Yes, I figured that much, thanks—" He broke off looking puzzled, "Are you wearing my sweater?"

Hermione looked down, back up at Ron, and then back at the jumper, all the while blushing a startling crimson. "Oh, well…umm, yes, I suppose it is…er, sorry."

She hastened to pull it off, berating her self for being so stupid as to forget that she was wearing it.

Ron grabbed her wrist, flushing as bright as Hermione. "You can keep it. The colour looks good on you. And, it's really to short for me anyways, and I'll be getting a new one soon, you're practically family anyways, and it's colder in the evenings now, I wouldn't want you to get sick or anything. So, yeah, it's yours." He took a breath and cleared his throat, letting go of her arm and turning to look at Harry in one fluid motion. "Fancy a game of chess, Harry? I'll get the pieces."

Hermione stood awkwardly. "Thanks Ron. I think I'll go to bed. Goodnight."

Ron merely waved a hand in acknowledgement. His ears were still scarlet.

Hermione nodded to the still smirking Harry, glaring at him before fleeing to the safety of her dormitory.

But on her way up the stairs, she couldn't help but pause to listen Harry's laughter.

"Smooth, Weasley. Real smooth."

"Shut it."

"That colour looks good on you? Could you be any more of an idiot?"

"Two words for you mate: Cho Chang."

"Ah, Shut up."

Hermione skipped into her room, grinning to herself. In fact, she was in such good spirits Lavender and Pavarti's giggles and raised eyebrows didn't bother her in the slightest.

She slept with Ron's jumper on that night. And although, she would never admit it, the practice became so routine over the next few weeks, that she had trouble sleeping without its warmth.

Fluff! Is there anything better? I think not. Disclaimer: Not mine, I promise you.