This is a two-pieced one-shot I came out with one night my hands were extremely cold, as usual, and, well ... I started thinking in ways of warm them up P So, I hope you will enjoy it, and must thank to my beta this time, Hermionegall16 from Veritaserum Forums, she's been great.

And my little disclaimer, of course: this all belongs to JK Rowling's wonderful mind, and I just borrowed her characters and magical ideas to write this.

Leave me some little review if you feel like!

Dess

Cold Hands, Cold Feet

Cold Hands

Ron shuffled along the aisle between bookshelves. However depressing it was, he had to get to work on his homework. It was Saturday evening, and the stuff from the week had reached a frightening amount, so, loaded with his rucksack and every useful book he could fetch, he looked for an empty table. Unluckily, many fifth years had his same intentions in mind, and wherever he glanced, tables were crammed with long parchments, thousands of books, quills, bottles of ink, and exasperated students.
Unwillingly, he went on to the furthest side of the library, near the Forbidden Section, and there, indeed, next to an overflowing table from which the occupant had apparently left, there was a vacant desk.
Ron dropped everything on it, without caring when some of the books fell to the floor, ill-placed.
Making up his mind to start with Transfiguration, he picked up the corresponding book and flipped through, quill hanging over in his hand ready to stop now and then to write down what he needed.
The time wore on, and as he continued with History of Magic, Ron could hear the scratching sound of the quill belonging to his table neighbour, so he realized he or she had been always there, concealed by the piles of books.
After a deadly boring paper about litigations with the vampires, Ron ran his hand across his hair, yawning. He still had to write his conclusions for Potions about stimulant philters, but he wanted a rest.
A few books collapsed from a stack in the next table, and a familiar voice said, 'Damn it.'
'Hermione?' asked Ron, surprised when the bushy-haired girl appeared through a gap.

'Oh, hi, Ron,' said Hermione, slightly blushing as he had heard her swearing. 'When did you come?'

'Like hours ago. I had no idea you were there,' replied Ron, stooping to pick the fallen books and handing them to her. 'Trying to catch up with this, you know.' He pointed to his stuff.

'About time, don't you think?
'Harry with Umbridge?' asked Hermione, restoring her books in a new pile that didn't hide her.

'Yeah. That's why I'm doing it alone. And … you've got delayed homework?' asked Ron in disbelief;' it wasn't very typical from Hermione to postpone things.

'Sort of. Just a long translation, and checking some details,' shrugged Hermione. 'I've finished now, actually.'

'Oh, er … in that case, I was wondering ─ would you mind to help me with this a bit? I can't think of anything, and I dunno whether this paragraph has something to do with …' Ron told her, rummaging in his mess of parchments.
'Sure, just let me return these books. Why don't you draw near your table?' proposed Hermione, yawning as she stood up and started gathering the books she had been using.

Ron had asked her to help him "a bit", but the girl reviewed all his writings alone, adding some notes, and Ron meanwhile leant against his chair, stretching, and watched her. He couldn't withdraw his sight form her; bending over the table, absorbed in her work and with her brow slightly knit, Ron felt bewitched.
'Well,' she said eventually, at which Ron jumped, 'I'm done with these. Now make clean copies.' Hermione handed the papers to Ron, and when he took them, their hands brushed against each other. Hermione's hand was freezing.

'Are your hands always so cold?' inquired Ron, taking the parchments at last.
Hermione stretched out her hands in front of her to contemplate at them. The facts were that she had always hated that, her hands getting so cold in winter. As much as she wore gloves, or despite the fact she kept them busy, they remained cold. She told it so to Ron.

'Try like this,' replied Ron, grabbing her two hands and rubbing them gently with his own, but he stopped soon and looked up; what was he doing? Hermione was staring at him in light astonishment, but with nothing resembling dislike, though. 'Sorry,' mumbled Ron, turning red.

'It's … ok.' There was a hint of disappointment in Hermione's voice. She didn't want his hands to part contact with hers.
In any case, they didn't have time to say anything else, because Madam Pince was already harassing the remaining students to leave. Ron and Hermione stuffed back their rucksacks and hurried to leave to the Gryffindor tower.
Before they crossed the hole behind the Fat Lady, Hermione said with shyness, 'I could check your leftover homework tomorrow.'

Ron grinned faintly.

'Good night.'

Cold Feet

Determined, Hermione walked through the bookshelves until she reached the furthest side of the library. As it was the previous evening, the place was crowded by students seizing the last chance to fulfill their homework for Monday, but she knew where she could get a free table.
Ron was sitting at the two tables left joined since the last night, but his red mop was barely visible from behind two heaps of books. Hermione smirked; a laborious Ron wasn't an everyday sight.

'I told you I was going to help you,' she said, dropping herself into a chair opposite him.

'Mpff, I didn't take it seriously,' replied Ron, crossing out something in his essay.

'Ah, well, I feel good-hearted today. Besides, I know you have had Quidditch training, and Harry with that horrible hag and the Occlumency lessons … I was helping Harry before,' sighed Hermione, rolling eyes, 'but I let slip that I agree with Snape in that he isn't trying his hardest, so he got angry and nearly threw me out, but I left before he did.'

'You seriously agree with Snape?' asked her Ron in dissaproval. Hermione became stern.

'Ron, you know as well as I do how important is that Harry can control his dreams.'

'But ─'

'Do you want my help or not?' prevented him Hermione, like if saying "you better don't dare me".
Hermione started checking what Ron had already done while he kept writing. When he finished, he rested his chin on his fist and stared awry at Hermione.

'How're your hands today?' blurted Ron. Hermione left the quill, surprised by the question.
'Cold, as ever,' she snorted. 'Well ─ not as ever. Your ─ your method last night did work.'
Hermione blushed and recovered her quill, glancing nervously at him. The truth was that her heart had skipped in a way she had never experienced before during the brief moments Ron kept his hands wrapped with hers, and she could not forget it.
After a while, she released her quill again to crack her knuckles, in order to relieve the tension of writing. And she rubbed her hands absent-mindedly. Ron sniggered.

'That softness won't do the trick.'

'Huh?' replied Hermione puzzled, before coming down to earth. 'Oh. Yeah, right.'

'Do you want me to ...?' asked Ron, taking her hands cautiously in case she wanted to withdraw them, but she didn't. What was he doing? They were friends, after all, and there was nothing wrong in helping your best friend for years to get her hands warmed up. Unless your friend was a girl, and unless you feel like never letting go of those hands, thought Ron guiltily as he rubbed Hermione's hands.
Her hands were small and pink, and as cold as marble. He spotted she was wearing a ring on her right middle finger: two fine bands of gold enclosing a letter 'H'. He thought he had never seen it before, but then he remembered that he had never had a close look at Hermione's hand, either.

'Nice ring,' Ron managed to say.

'Thanks. My parents gave it to me for my last birthday,' replied Hermione. 'And the bracelet?' He had caught sight of a silver bracelet she had on her left wrist.

There was a silence before Hermione said, 'No, I … bought it myself.'

That was a lie. Viktor Krum had sent it to her, also for her birthday, just as the friends they were, but she didn't want to start a quarrel right in that moment.
What was she thinking? She couldn't like Ron, no way. Or could she? His hands, bigger and rougher than hers, were giving her a feeling of warm comfort that did not reach only her hands, but Hermione knew they had to resume their duties. Besides, Ron was rubbing her hands as a friend, as a friend who saw a pair of cold hands. And if she imagined something else, it was her fault, not the fact that Ron stamped a caress in every touch. She was about to remind him she still had to finish checking his essays, when Ron muttered something.

'What?' she said, ashamed of not listening.

'That … it's ─ kinda odd that ─ you've got cold hands and I ─ I've got cold feet. But I can't ─ warm those.'

He hadn't look at her when he said it, but his rubbing had somewhat slackened.

'And … why not?' said Hermione, trying to ignore the double meaning, as there wasn't any, surely. 'I'm sure you can ─' Ron met her eyes for a split second before brushing aside a lock of her hair falling on her face and attracting her into a kiss.
That took Hermione unprepared; her stomach was tense in suspense, but her brain was dull. His lips were soft and gentle, as he hadn't kissed anybody else before. She also perceived them unsure, as though expecting her to break apart and slap him on the face, but Hermione kissed him back, feeling one of Ron's hands holding the back of her neck and the other one still wrapping warm both of hers, across the table and the mountains of books. It was so special that Hermione forgot where she was, and that she had the corner of a book stabbing her ribs; she forgot everything about her first kiss, and she forgot she was being kissing by Ronald Weasley, the boy with the emotional range of a teaspoon. All her world and the concerns of her life had been reduced to that kiss, that wonderful kiss that linked her with Ron, the boy who had rubbed her hands.
They broke apart minutes later.

'Are your feet still cold?' asked Hermione, still dazed. Ron smiled at her. 'No. Neither are your hands.'