It is a drizzly autumn day early in their third year. The castle's magic roof is an off shade of gray, dark in some places, lighter in others. Even though she is safely inside, she feels cold and shivers, imagining the blustery chill in the air out-of-doors. It is probably also helped by the fact that the dementors patrol right outside the heavy doors that lie not too far from the Great Hall. She has never felt the same since they have come. She doesn't know if it's their fault, or maybe her own, but these days her mind goes often to every argument she's ever had with Ron. When he called her a know-it-all first year, when they had bickered about trivial things like homework, and most recently, Scabbers. The bad thing was, her heightened preoccupation actually made her more apt to snap at her friend, and their relationship had seemed more rocky this year than any other.
Today, however, is a good day, she can tell, as Ron sits down cheerfully on the bench and instantly starts shoving his mouth full of anything edible that he can reach. Mince pies, rolls with marmalade spread hastily, porridge sweetened with a hint of cinnamon, and what seems to be glasses and glasses of orange juice and milk. She is amazed how he can hold so much, and even more so at the fact that he's as skinny as a string bean, as her Muggle parents would say.
As he takes a break so he won't choke up all his food that is most surely stacked from his stomach to his throat, he notices her shaking. "Are you okay? You're shivering like mad."
She nods quickly, a bright smile plastered on her face. She feels if Ron looks too hard at her, he will see everything going on in her mind, and honestly, some of that she doesn't want him to see. "Yes. Perfectly fine, thanks for asking."
Ron easily shrugs off his sweater, leaving him in his white button-down, his tie disheveled, and his clothes wrinkled. "Here, take my sweater." He tosses it over in a quick throw, and it lands on her lap neatly.
She feels herself blush scarlet red at the sight of his….Ron's sweatshirt lying on her lap. She knows not to think such things, but all that pops in his mind is He gave me his sweater! Ron's never done that for any girl, not Lavender, not Parvati, not anyone but me, Hermione Granger. Maybe he lik- With that she stops. No, she can not let herself hope for these things. Ron, doesn't, and never will like her like that. All she is is his bushy-haired friend, who sometimes can not be called even that when they fight. She is just…there. Nothing more.
She hears Ron's voice, and she slips out of her confused thoughts. She notices that the whole side of his face, from tip of his ears to his neck, are a bright, bright pink. "Oh umm…sorry. I mean, I didn't mean to force it on you. I just thought…y'know."
She looks into his bright blue eyes, and sees something there that she has never noticed. It is gone before she can realize what it is, but something about it stirs hope in her, something brave and strong. She gives him a bright smile, much more courageous than she feels, rather has ever felt, and slips on the sweatshirt. She can't help but notice the clean, fresh smell, and the way the well-worn fabric feels soft and snug on her skin. "Thanks, Ron. That was sweet of you."
Then, before she can stop herself, she puts her hand on top of Ron's. Her hands, the long-fingered, almost ghostly ones that were perfect when she played piano are quite small on top of Ron's calloused, large hand, perfect for catching the Quaffle when he played Quidditch during the summer with his brothers. It is an odd fit, but it feels nice, like when you wrap a patchwork quilt around yourself. She likes it.
For a second after, they look at each other again, and his blue eyes burn into hers stronger than the flames she had conquered when Harry had to find the Stone. It is a good feeling though, looking into them, and she wants to say more, but the words seem like a riskier gamble than choosing which potion would save her life, while it could have been the one that would kill her.
Then the moment is over as Harry settles himself down among them. Their conversation falls into the kind it always does when the three of them are together, and all that has happened earlier that morning seems to be forgotten.
However, Ron never asks for his sweatshirt back, even though it is clearly evident when Hermione wears it, the sleeves bunching loosely, her hands lost inside the fabric. Even when his own sweater, the only one he has left, is stained with ink and jelly and burn marks from misshapen spells, not once does he ask for it.
And Hermione never wears another sweater, unless it is wash day, even though it is noticeably large for her. After that day, whenever she feels the dementor's influence wash over her from within the castle, all she has to do is think of that moment where the sweater landed next to her, hers to wear, and somehow the day seems brighter, happier, more full of hope.
And years from then, when she looks into those eyes again and this time their lips meet, when she pulls away, she asks, "Ron, do you remember that moment in third year?"
And he knows right away what she's talking about. It takes Ron only a second to remember after all these years, that one day at breakfast, that to others would be just a mundanely boring morning of no consequence, but to him was a day that would always be etched in his mind. "Of course I do, love. It was the moment I knew I was in love with you."