Disclaimer: The characters contained herein do not belong to me. No profits are obtained writing this fiction, which is presented for entertainment purposes only.
Ron doesn't like silence.
Silence is uncomfortable, it signifies the words he fails to grasp, and the painful nothingness after one of Dennis Creevey's puns. Silence to Ron feels a bit like the disappointment of blowing into a sea shell, and his whistle coming back at him, devoid of the chamber music merpeople make - or as Fred and George told him Merpeople make. He can appreciate it, you know, for what it is - just like he can appreciate the rain that makes the earth flourish, he just doesn't want to go mucking about in it.
When a person grows up with eight other people in his midst, some, if not all of them, are bound to make noise. Whether it's the odd clacking of silverware against Ginny's teeth when eating her mashed potatoes, and the following swat from Molly Weasley about her horrendous table manners, or the constant banging from Fred and George's room, there's always noise at the Burrow.
When Bill had gotten an eklecktic guitar from some shop in muggle London in his sixth year, it screeched a terrible rendition of Mary Had a Little Lamb. At night, Ron would listen to muted curses between the melody and go to sleep, and he missed it inexplicably when Fred and George eventually blew the instrument up, though he liked the bright sparks it made.
Ron harbours chaos. It is also the reason Ron is the friend of Harry Potter. There's always chaos with Harry. Everything about Harry himself is chaotic, from the ill fit of his clothes, down to the last strand of wild black hair trickling down his brow. Harry is charismatic in his own way, regardless of his fame, Harry is pleasant without being too nice, Harry has his pride but he's not a prat, Harry always means well but there's always anger underlining it. Ron is somehow drawn to that - one of the proverbial moths to the flame. Sometimes Ron wishes he could burn as bright as Harry.
But Ron likes the quiet when Hermione is beside him on the squashy Gryffindor sofa in front of the fire. He's not one to be poetic, but he likes that scarlet color in her cheeks when the shadows from the flames hit her face just right, and he likes the reflection of the fire in her eyes. Like her personality, like his hair, and like his temperament.
She's reading a book and she's not paying attention to him, but he admires the pleats of her practical muggle skirt against his worn not-quite-black robes. He can see the bare silk of her upper thigh, and he'd just like for her to let him touch it - just once. But the intimacy of the silence and his arm on the sofa ledge, resting just inches from her narrow shoulders have to suffice. He stifles a yawn as his head falls back, so he's looking at the ceiling.
"D'you know what time it is? My arse is hot."
Hermione looks up sharply, her expression caught between something like disgust and incredulity. It settles into a reproving glare.
"It's ten – Harry!"
Ron raises a finger to point out that he is not Harry, and he sort of resents that. He sits up, however, and there's Harry climbing through the portrait hole, raking a shaky hand through his cowlicky hair.
"Hullo," he says dully, and both Ron and Hermione know that he's had a bad lesson with Snape.
Hermione sounds a little breathless as she rises swiftly, and Ron thanks the Almighty Powers of the Universe for making her skirt billow upward so that he caught a glimpse of the pretty blue panties she's wearing underneath it.
A small, regretful thing inside him makes Ron wish that she got that excited look whenever she saw him.
She's saying, "Harry, are you all right?" Ron notes that Harry doesn't look all right, and somehow her question sounds out of place.
He looks directly at her, and not at Ron, he looks like he'd rather look at anything else in the room rather than Ron, and he lies between his teeth that he's fine, and Occlumency is taking a lot out of him and he'd just like to go to bed. He smiles weakly at Hermione's put-out expression, Ron can't really argue with that, he's tired as well. Ron stands, wincing a bit at the rush of pinpricks in his legs and steps over to Harry. "Let's go to bed, shall we?" Ron says, clapping Harry on the shoulder in what he hopes is in a reassuring way. What remains of Harry's smile disappears, and he simply looks pained, stiffening under Ron's touch like a rock. Hermione frowns.
"Have your lessons been discontinued?"
Harry shakes his head.
"Hermione, Harry's been stuck in a room with the git for two hours, give him room."
She glares at Ron for a long second, and he can feel the flush working its way past his shirt collar. Hermione's gaze shifts to Harry, with an earnest, maternal expression before she kisses his cheek goodnight.
A surge of hot jealousy courses through Ron, poisonous, unyielding, and all he wants to do is make it go away. Harry doesn't seem to register the kiss, he just keeps shooting furtive glances away from Ron, and Ron figures too right he should, much to his horror.
Then on tip-toes, Hermione cups Ron's cheek and kisses it as well – soft and sweet. His ears burn delightedly.
"Goodnight, you two. Clear your mind, Harry, no matter how tired you are."
Ron sighs happily, his arm slung around Harry's shoulder, and steers them both up the staircase.