She couldn't help but feel that the conversation was entirely all too familiar. Like every line of it she knew by heart, and every comeback she could anticipate. Despite the familiarity, however, despite her knowing how the words would turn out and how the pauses would feel, there was still this sense of novelty.
This was, after all, the first time she'd really said these things aloud.
"I appreciate your kind words, Ron, but that's really just the way I feel. There's nothing to be done about it," she said.
"But I don't understand! How could you even think those things? You're bloody perfect, Hermione! You are!"
"Language, Ronald," she rebuked half-heartedly, "Like I said, that's just the way I feel."
They were naked, on her bed, in her Head Girl's room. She was curled up on her side, head on his chest, right hand tracing random patterns on his skin. He was on his back, one arm under his head, the other holding her tight to him.
It was funny really, that despite having known each other for seven years, and being best friends for the most part of those years, there were still awkward moments between the two of them. They had spent almost all their waking hours together, going on adventures with Harry, flirting, arguing, making up, talking, laughing, crying, celebrating, mourning, loving—they'd even gotten around to sleeping with each other (this was only their second time to shag)-- but still, there were times that they were quick to say the wrong things and groped for words that really needed to be said.
Just a moment ago, they were coupling, and Hermione had been on top. They both wanted to try sex this way, and though it had been awkward at first—they had a hard time finding the right angle and the appropriate pace—the sensation the new position brought was amazing.
And the view, Merlin! For Ron, the sight of Hermione riding him for the very first time would be etched in his mind forever. She was like a goddess to him, coming to claim what was hers by divine right. Her wild, bushy brown mane framed her angelic face perfectly. Her eyes were half-lidded, forehead a bit creased, mouth slightly parted as she rode him with diligence she usually reserved for academics. Her breasts were perfect globes on a perfect torso that swelled just perfectly at her waist. She was beautiful.
And that was what he said after they both reached climax. And that was what got them into this predicament.
She sighed.
"I know you love me, Ron, I really do. And I love you too, you know that, right? But you don't have to tell me I'm beautiful. Because I'm not. Really. And I've accepted that, I came to terms with that long ago--"
"That's a load of crap, 'Mione."
"Let me finish. I'm smart. I'm intelligent. I'm the brightest witch in our generation. But I'm not beautiful. I know that. I'm not exotic like Parvati with her golden complexion. I'm not gorgeous like Cho. And I'm not sexy like Lavender—"
"Oh hell, no, Hermione! You are, too, sexy!"
She groaned in frustration, sat up, bringing the covers with her to hide her too small breasts.
"Honestly! Why must you make it even harder for me? I'm not any of those things, so let's leave it at that! I've known that for the better part of my life! I don't need you trying to mess with my self-image just because… well just because!" she sighed again, and at this, her voice became a bit smaller. "Ron, I know what I am, and I know what I'm not."
She looked away, searching for a little bit of something - anything - to make that clenching in her heart and her throat go away. She did not want to cry in the middle of a perfectly logical argument.
"You're beautiful to me."
It must have been the wrong thing to say. She covered her face with her hands and choked back a sob.
"That's not the same thing and you know it," she whispered.
"My hair's a mess, my cheeks are rounder than they should be, my nose turns up a bit at the end, my breasts are too small, my belly's rounded, my hips don't flare out enough. Merlin! I'm built like a boy! My legs aren't long and slender, and my arse, do I even have an arse?"
"I'm not beautiful, I'm not gorgeous, I'm not even pretty. Maybe from afar, if the sun's shining a bit too bright and you squint a little, I can be cute. But I'm not beautiful. I never will be. I am, smart though. Can you just concentrate on that? Yes, you love me, and your love-addled mind may perceive me as beautiful. But the fact is I'm not. Ok?"
Ron sat up too, swung his legs to one side of the bed, and stared out the window. He could not believe they were having this conversation. It was too alien to him. Hermione, his Hermione, thinking she wasn't beautiful when she was the one who defined the word for him. He grew up knowing that, measuring all other girls against her. The first and all succeeding wild thuds of his heart were because of her. All of his naughty dreams had her in starring role. And now this, her insistence on the contrary, threatened to destroy all that he had come to believe.
"I'm seriously contemplating leaving right now," he said to no one in particular. A sound coming from Hermione indicated that that was the last thing she expected to hear.
"You're beautiful to me. That's what I know, what I've always known. It's not in some bloody book, 'Mione. But my eyes see it, and my heart knows it," he whispered.
"And it's just… I know too well what you're talking about. Although in a different way of course. You think you're not beautiful, and you've been thinking that for a long time. And suddenly someone comes in and upsets the order of things, calling you beautiful and gorgeous. He could well be lying to you, except you know he's not… he believes what he's saying for some reason."
"But it would be too hard to believe what he's saying, you think. Because what if you do, and it turns out he's wrong and you get your heart broken at that? No you'd rather not believe him in the first place. Tell him he's wrong. Tell him to think you're smart and not beautiful... just like what most people say."
Ron gave a snort. "I promise to make sense in a little while."
Ron turned to Hermione suddenly not caring if she saw his tears. "I understand you more than you think I do."
He held his hand up to caress her face.
"You see, there's this girl who keeps telling me I'm smart and I'm brave when I'm not really. Really. I don't face curses or dragons everyday like Bill and Charlie. And I reckon I won't ever be as bright as you or Percy. Half the time I'm confused about how things are, and the other half I just want to go and hide. But she tells me I'm brave because I'm scared and I still do what has to be done. She tells me I'm smart because I think quick under pressure."
"Sometimes I just want to shout at her and tell her I'm not brave! I'm not smart! I want to ask her to just go back to calling me a loyal friend… and great at chess, yeah? That way I won't ever have to risk discovering that I'm really just a boy afraid of spiders."
He dragged the fingers of one hand lightly along her cheeks. With the other, he caressed her neck and skin leading to the scar she received at the fight in the Department of Mysteries.
And then with both hands, Ron, his eyes never leaving hers, cupped Hermione's face and rested their foreheads together.
"You think I'm brave, Hermione. And you, of all people, think I'm smart. You know me best. You've seen me cry, laugh, sleep, fight, fail, and succeed. So somehow I know I'm all those things you say I am. And that's enough, really, for me."
Hermione's tears were falling freely now, past her cheeks and onto Ron's scarred hands.
Ron kissed her lips then, moved his mouth over hers, tasting and savoring.
"I love you, Hermione Granger, have even before I knew about love," he said between mouthfuls of his lover. "And you're beautiful, beautiful, just so, so, beautiful."
Hermione was laughing, crying and kissing Ron at the same time, this boy… this man, who's been part of her life and her dreams, and hopefully, her forever.
"I love you too, Ron," she whispered. "And I am, I am."