UPDATE 5/31/2014: First off, I decided that this will be a two-shot... when I get to writing the second the chapter xP and, while I'm at it, I'd like to apologize for my procrastinating *glares at life* but I promise I am working on being more productive! (If that's what you want to call this...)

So I randomly decided to write some Romione drabble based of the five senses – sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste. Not really much more to it… it's all in Hermione's point of view and I'm considering doing another separate story that would be Ron's. But, anyway, enjoy. :)

Sight

Sure, Hermione had seen Ron before, but she'd never given him a good look.

Nearly every day for four years she'd sat next to him at meals, classes, and studying in the Common Room, though she'd never thought twice about the way he slouched at her side, occasionally running his hand through his hair and rolling his eyes at every other word she said. It wasn't until the beginning of fourth year when she began noticing him more.

One day during the History of Magic, Hermione found herself having trouble concentrating on the lesson; she was too captivated on Ron sitting beside her. It wasn't as if he'd made any drastic changes to his appearance, on the contrary he looked as normal as ever, except for the fact that his tie was neatly knotted. He usually wore it slack or undone around his neck. This was evident in the way he kept tugging at it, pulling it looser as the period continued to tick by.

The movement of his hand once again caught Hermione's attention. Without giving a physical reaction Hermione's eyes flicked to where Ron was fidgeting. She watched as his fingers slid beneath where the material was tied and tugged at it once again, messing up the collar of his shirt and further shattering his crisp and clean aura. His large hand continued to run to the back of his neck and into his wild, birds' nest of hair. Personally she'd preferred it when it was shorter, though she doubted Ron would appreciate her input.

He dropped his hand back to the desk, twirling his quill between his fingers before halting his activity to glide the feather end along his jaw bone. She watched it progress across his face, tracing over a mass of freckles and along the side of his nose before traveling down to trace across his lips.

Hermione shivered involuntarily, continuing to watch his lips as the feather dipped to his chin. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips slightly before he sighed deeply and set his hands firmly on the desk. His eyes – sky blue – turned to look at something on the far wall.

She was so caught up in him that the bell signaling the end of class made her jump from her seat, heart beat pounding in her dizzy head. She almost lost her balance when she attempted to stack her books. "You okay?" Ron asked. She glanced at him to see him watching her with slight concern.

"I'm fine," she lied, shoving past him while struggling not to be distracted. "Come on, we'll be late."

Smell

Quidditch – the favored sport of Wizards all over the planet. Played professionally, at holidays, birthdays, reunions, and – most well-known to Hermione – as a year-long tournament at Hogwarts.

Hermione had never been a huge fan of Quidditch, not because she despised the game, but she didn't understand the concept of sports as a whole. Why waste time flying about on brooms when you could be studying? She'd wondered on multiple occasions. Nonetheless, she attended the games to watch her two best friends (as they insisted she got out and had fun every once in a while).

She didn't truly begin appreciating Quidditch until Ron made the team. Actually, it was even before Gryffindor's first game that she began developing a fondness for it for one reason alone. Practice.

Every few times she'd go to watch the team practice their roles, and while she promised Harry and Ginny that she'd seen their amazing catches and goals, it was really Ron she was watching. Something about the control he possessed as he rode his broom or the way he would suddenly swoop and make an amazing save wouldn't let her look away from him, not to mention he looked positively dashing in his Quidditch uniform.

But she didn't enjoy Quidditch because it allowed her to get a good look at Ron; no, she could do that any time of the day. What she always looked forward was to after practice.

Ron and Harry would enter the Common Room and begin their homework with her, one on either side as they relied fully on her to tell them what they'd missed during their lessons while they dazed off. Ron would sit so close that they would only be six inches apart and the intoxicating scent of his shampoo would overwhelm Hermione. Accompanied by his damp hair and heat from the warm water, Hermione would feel entirely consumed in his scent and presence – what she had decided was the best feeling in the world.

And then he would lean over to point at something in a textbook and his arm would be so close to her body Hermione would struggle to control herself, fighting the urge to let herself be wrapped in his warm arms and masculine scent.

It was usually Harry's voice that brought her out of her trance, probing for the answer to one of the questions on his homework. Begrudgingly, Hermione would pull herself back to reality, saving the memory of Ron for later that night as she was falling asleep; a thought that promised blissful dreams.

Hearing

When Hermione arrived at the Burrow before sixth year, she was greeted by a very eager Ron. For her entire first day, they spent the time outside near the pond that was about a mile from the Burrow and talked, plotting what they would tell Harry and when they would leave for the Horcrux hunt and whatnot. Despite the gruesome subject, Hermione rather enjoyed the chance to be alone with Ron, no matter the fact that nothing more happened than their shoulders and hips brushing against each other are every so often when they would move.

On the second day Hermione woke up early, before Ginny or anyone else, she was pretty sure. Pulling on a nightdress she snuck out of Ginny's room and tiptoed up the stairs to the bathroom on the fourth floor.

Before she could enter the bathroom Hermione was distracted by a sound from an upper floor – the attic room, Ron's room. Unable to quench her curiosity, Hermione silently climbed the final staircase and pressed her ear to Ron's door. She could hear Magic Works by the Weird Sisters playing quietly on the radio, the words muted through the wall but loud enough for Hermione to make out. She didn't find anything extraordinary about the situation until she heard another voice begin singing – one not from the radio.

Hermione almost didn't recognize the voice, though she knew Ron was the only person who could be in the room. Her jaw gaped and she pressed harder into the wood, trying to engrave the sound into her brain. While his singing wasn't in tune with the band nor did it match the rhythm perfectly, it was deep and rich in a way that made butterflies erupt in her stomach. The lyrics of the romantic song he was singing to didn't help with that.

As Ron sang along to the lyrics about dancing while there was still a chance, Hermione let herself slip into daydream, imagining him singing the words quietly into her ear as they danced, his breathtakingly beautiful voice filling her completely with his virile post-Quidditch scent. The thought alone left her dizzy with giddiness and craving his company more than she ever had before. Maybe someday, she allowed herself to hope. Maybe someday.

Touch

If being stuck at Grimmauld Place was painful before fifth year, it was hell now.

For four years Hermione had kept her hormones in check: never letting them become so demanding that she was distracted from a life-or-death situation at hand. Not once had she succumb to the adrenaline and testosterone that begged her to toss aside her common sense and find release for the built up tension she experienced when in Ron's presence. Not a single time.

But living in such close quarters with Ron took its toll on Hermione. Most of the time she felt as though her brain was stewing in the chemicals – slowly aiming to drive her insane with need to see Ron's lanky build beneath his too small shirt, inhale his pungent scent and hear his powerful if not scratchy voice.

Yet once she got the slightest taste, it was all she could do to hold herself back. She wanted to be near him, to know what it felt like to have his body pressed firmly to hers, perhaps shoving her into a wall and kissing her roughly while tangling his fingers in her wild curly hair.

Hermione refused to let herself think of such things in Ron's company; however, it was the only thing she could think around him just as well. This made a chore of plotting their way into the Ministry with Harry as she found herself sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Ron, trying to do anything but look in his direction or breathe in his scent (both of which she failed on numerous occasions).

She stared at the map, sifting through thick clouds of lust-filled tension just to understand what was happening. When she surfaced, Hermione found herself staring at the perfect entrance. "There!" she said simultaneously with Ron, both of them setting their hands on the same spot on the map.

Time seemed to stand still. Harry spoke but his voice was thousands of miles away as Hermione's hand lay flat against the map, covered by Ron's much larger, calloused hand. The temperature had gone up at least ten degrees in the room and a lightning storm seemed to be growing in intensity in Hermione's head, occasionally causing sparks to spasm along her nerve endings, straight up and down to where her and Ron's hands were connected.

Hermione's gaze shot to look up at Ron who was already watching her, his freckled face pale and eyes nearing a shade of sapphire blue. His brow was furrowed in a way that erased any of Hermione's doubts that he didn't like her in the same way she liked him. She bit her lip in nervous excitement.

"Anyway," Harry's voice broke a barrier, reminding Hermione of the looming war and hunt. Pulling her hand away from Ron's, she continued to pretend to listen and participate in scouting the Ministry.

Taste

Hermione ran her hands over Ron's back, digging her nails into his bare skin. She moaned as his hands moved beneath her shirt and scratched her sides, arching her torso up into his hard, defined chest. "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," he whispered gruffly, his hot breath painting the words across her earlobe before he gently nipped it.

Hermione laughed and squealed when he scratched her sides again, gently pushing him over so he was no longer on top of her. Satisfied that his lips were once again free, she put good use to them by sealing them in a heated kiss. Ron seemed rather eager for the new angle as he pulled her closer by her waist, running his hands gently over her soft skin.

Hermione was sure she'd never been happier. Her entire life could be categorized in the stages of her love for Ron Weasley and now she finally had him. She could watch him intently without being questioned. She could bury her nose in the nape of his neck and let herself be consumed by the scent that was entirely, purely 'Ron'. She was treated to a song on special occasions and received touches ranging from gentle and affectionate to hot and passionate.

And, to add to that, the final sense she'd never thought she'd have the privilege to know. His taste.

Taste was probably one of the most varying things about Ron Weasley. Sure his scent changed according to what shampoo he used and his touches changed with the mood, but none of them could compare to the ever constant shift of his taste.

As she kissed him she could taste spearmint from when he brushed his teeth before bed. Rolling on top of him, she let her lips wander to his neck, tasting the slightest trace of salt lying beneath layers of water and body wash. Her lips migrated upwards and sucked lightly on his earlobe, tasting more of a sweet and salty concoction than she could in other places.

She pulled back, gazing down at his pale white skin dotted with hundreds of freckles – like foam on Butterbeer sprinkled with cinnamon. She licked her lips, wishing she could drink it from his skin and taste all of him at once. Another day, she promised herself. You'll have a long time to cherish it all.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! If you did, feel free to leave a review… we writer's live for them… Anyway, have a nice day. :)