A/N: Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews on the first chapter! I hope you enjoy the next one :)

Harry Potter is the happiest I have ever seen him. He's practically giddy as he sits down at the breakfast table and helps himself to an enormous portion of scrambled eggs and sausage. Ron trails along behind him, looking a bit subdued, and seats himself across from me. Our eyes lock, and then he gives a little shake of his head, like he's trying to clear his brain, and reaches for a slice of toast.

"So what did I miss yesterday at the party?" asks Harry innocently.

"Nothing," I am quick to say, actively not looking at Ron as I stir my porridge.

Technically, nothing did happen; Ron and I are just two friends whose faces were incredibly close together for about half a second yesterday. Now, he's barely able to look at me. He was probably just tipsy on Firewhisky and the Quidditch championship and he got carried away. It's exactly what happened with Lavender six months ago, only they didn't get interrupted.

Ginny comes bounding over a second later and sits down in Harry's other side. All eyes in the Great Hall are on them (with the exception of Ron, who is quite focused on his breakfast), but neither seems to notice or care. I, for one, cannot help but beam at them once again. Harry's life has been so full of doom and gloom, and his relationship with Cho last year gave him anxiety more than anything, so it's a lovely change of pace to see him genuinely and purely happy.

Harry strikes up conversation with Ron about yesterday's match, which only makes me hide my laughter with my goblet of pumpkin juice because it means that Harry and Ginny spent all those hours not talking about the match. If Ron has caught on to that detail, he takes it in stride and soon he's giving Harry a play-by-play of every save he made yesterday. His face lights up as he talks, his passion and excitement and confidence emanating off of him. I'm not even listening to his words - most of it is Quidditch terminology anyway - just watching him. Every so often he catches my eye and his smile changes a bit, becoming gentler, sweeter.

There is no one on the planet more confusing than Ron Weasley.

"So," Harry says, shifting around to face Ginny. "Do you… want to go for a walk or something?"

As Ginny agrees, Ron mimes vomiting into his palms, earning himself a swat on the back of his head from his sister. Under the table, I drive my heel into the toe of his boot.

"Ow!" he whines. "What the hell?"

"I told you to be nice to them," I hiss, leaning across the table.

"Yeah, and I am but I'm also not going to miss a chance to take the mickey," he smiles. "We both know that if I actually had a problem with it, which I don't, I'd be acting - y'know-"

"Like a prat?"

"Well, yeah." He helps himself to a slice of bacon. "I do still need help with my Potions essay."

"I have a lot of Arithmancy homework to do first," I tell him, "so you'll have to wait."

"Yeah, alright." He looks inexplicably amused as I rise from the table. "I'll be around."

The library, which has long been my safe space, is blessedly quiet on this Sunday morning. I seek out a small table near the Restricted Section and set to work. Though Arithmancy is my favorite subject, my thoughts keep drifting back to last night. I can't have imagined all of it, can I? The way he looked at me when we were alone, his body squished into a chair with mine, the way he said I was amazing - it all happened and it's not as if I've ever had moments like that with Harry. If only Harry and Ginny had taken just two minutes longer to return to the common room, this morning could be completely different. Instead, I'm just trying to concentrate on my Arithmancy chart and forcing myself not to imagine what his lips might have felt like, tasted like.

But a few hours later, a tall figure with arms laden down with textbooks appears before me.

"As it turns out," says Ron, dropping the books on the table with a thud, "I don't have that many friends."

"What?"

"With you in here and Harry, erm, otherwise occupied, I have nobody to hang out with."

"You have other friends."

"Yeah, but they're not…you."

He sits and rests his arms atop the stack of books, then sets his chin on them as well. I turn my attention back to my parchment, but I'm too aware of him now to process anything else. I have to read the same sentence in my book five times before I retain a word of it because I can sense his eyes on me. I keep expecting him to open a book and at least pretend to study, but when I look up, he's just gazing expectantly at me.

"You really don't have any other homework to do?"

With a sigh, he cracks open the book on the top of the stack - Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6 - and starts scanning the page. Satisfied, I turn back to my work, but only about five minutes lapse before the rustling of pages ceases. I look up to see him snap his eyes back down to his book.

"Stop looking at me!" I command, making his ears turn pink.

"If you just help me with Potions, I'll get out of your hair."

"No, you won't." I expect him to be irritated by this accusation, but instead he's just watching me. "You didn't come here for Potions, you came here because you're bored and you wanted to pester me."

"I can neither confirm nor deny that." The problem is that he's giving me that smile again, the warm, brilliant one, and my resolve is dwindling. "It's just that there's nothing in this book about the healing properties of doxy eggs."

"Hold on." I start rummaging through my rucksack, pretending to be exasperated as I pull out a thick, yellowed book. "I checked this out last week, it should be in here…"

Ron, rather loudly, scoots his chair around the table until he's beside me as I flip through the pages. It's then that I remember the real reason that I always end up helping him with his homework: the very closeness of it. He leans over to read the text and the scent of his hair floods my nose.

"Oh!" His voice erupts through the Ron-induced fog in my brain. "It's there." He lands a finger on the page regarding the uses of doxy eggs in magical medicine.

"Right, so it says, 'doxy eggs in their pulverized state have been implemented in many new healing potions.'" I sweep my hair away from my neck and try not to be affected by the way he's looking at me. "'Most common uses include Burn-Soothing Solutions and Blood-Clotting Creams.'"

"Erm," Ron says in a breath. "Sorry. I didn't catch any of that."

"Really?" My attempt to scold falls flat; my breath has caught in my throat.

"Yeah. Sorry."

The words fall lazily from his mouth and his smile is big and loose and if I didn't know better, I'd think he was drunk but he just seems to be in a daze. Is it… because of me? Or has he just not snogged a girl in over a month?

"Here." I shove the book toward him. "It's all right there, I'll read it through when you're finished."

"Okay."

A silence falls between us as he dutifully picks up a quill and parchment and commences the essay. He's still sitting terribly close to me and every so often he lets out a breath or swallows or scratches his nose and I lose my grip on my senses all over again.

"It makes sense that the twins were hoarding doxy eggs from Grimmauld Place, then," he comments after a while. "They probably use it for that Bruise Removal Paste they make."

"Yes, I suppose they would."

"So what do you want to do after this?" he asks casually, looking up at me through fair eyelashes. "Do you want to go down by the lake or something?"

"I - I have a lot of homework to do, and you probably do too, exams are coming up."

"Yeah," he replies, a bit morose. "I guess I could do my Transfiguration stuff."

"Okay, Ron, I don't get it," I say, sitting up and closing my book. "You're a good wizard, you're - you're a great wizard. You got seven OWLs. So why is it like pulling teeth to get you to do your work?"

The question hangs in the air as I internally panic, waiting for him to find some way to misconstrue it, but he just sets down his quill and leans back in his chair.

"It's all so technical," he explains. "So much of it is theory and proper wand movements and technique but I don't know… maybe it's because I grew up with it and it's always been there, but to me, magic is an intuitive thing."

And of course it would be. Ron is strategic and clever, but he's all heart, it's ultimately what guides him. He didn't need to memorize his textbooks before school even started because these things are an innate part of him.

"Like yesterday, when I Transfigured those goblets," Ron continues, thoughtful, "it was just - I knew what I needed, so I just did it. But it's different when we're in class and McGonagall is staring me down and we're doing something mental like turning ducks into watering cans - I start overthinking it and it just gets buggered up."

Then there's me, cerebral and bookish and studious. Sometimes it seems strange that we ever became friends at all, let alone evolved into whatever's going on now, but maybe it's more about balance than similarity.

"It's like flying a broom," he adds, now inspired. "It's almost like having a relationship with the broom-"

"A relationship?"

"Yes, it's almost like… trust, in a way. It's not technical or something you can learn from a book - I'll show you."

Twenty minutes later finds us standing in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, Ron's Cleansweep on the grass between us. Our rucksacks are lying somewhere in the stands, bearing our books and his still-unfinished Potions essay.

"So, my broom is nothing like Harry's Firebolt," he says, "but it's also nothing like that old Shooting Star we made you ride all last summer."

"So you're saying you made me ride the worst broom? Even though I'm the worst at flying?"

"Well…" He looks a bit guilty. "The good brooms would have been wasted on you." Before I can get too offended, Ron summons the broom up to waist level and grasps the handle. "Right, then. Hop on."

I clamber aboard, trying to get comfortable, while Ron climbs on behind me and slips an arm around my waist. He's just making sure I don't fall, I insist to myself. It's nothing more than that. He's just teaching me to fly as a way to procrastinate.

"Are these brooms made for two people?"

"Not officially, but it's fine, you're small."

"That's not exactly reassuring-"

But he kicks us off the ground and into the sky before I can continue expressing this concern. The broom doesn't shake and vibrate like the old school brooms or the ancient ones at the Burrow. It hangs steadily in the air, awaiting instruction.

"So just do a lap," Ron suggests.

"But - but I don't-"

I'm not familiar with the Cleansweep Eleven or its strengths and drawbacks. How much pressure would I need to apply to the handle? Is it sensitive to the touch? How quickly can it accelerate?

"Just do it."

I lean forward a bit, my stomach pressing against Ron's freckled forearm, and the broom shoots forward, nearly hurtling us headlong into the press box. Somehow, we screech to a halt.

"Okay, you've got to relax," he says from behind me. "You rode to London on a thestral last year, so this shouldn't bother you."

"That was different, we had no other choice. And to be honest, I was terrified."

It also doesn't help me relax when his chest is against my back and his fingertips are digging into my side.

"Yeah, I was too." I turn my head to look at him and find us incredibly close. If I just lean in, we can pick up where we left off in the common room… "Give it another go."

So I do, and this time I'm able to circle the pitch with relative ease. I'm no Harry or Ginny when it comes to flying and I know I never will be, but maybe Ron's right. Maybe it's not about being the best or being perfect, maybe it's about trusting your instincts. Instead of trying to calculate the exact moment to turn, I wait until it feels like I need to, and then I do. It's not effortless, but it's not exhausting or stressful either.

"That was really good," Ron says as we come to a smooth stop near a set of goal posts.

"This is a much nicer broom than I'm used to."

"Yeah, I mean, like I said, it's not exactly a Firebolt, but it's pretty good. But maybe this summer I'll let you borrow this one."

"Maybe?"

"Alright, fine." I can feel his grin even when I can't see his face. "I'll take the Shooting Star sometimes, how about that?"

"Thank you."

"Oi, turn around," he says suddenly. "It's weird trying to talk like this."

"Turn around?!" He may as well ask me to jump to my death. "We're fifty feet in the air!"

"Yeah, I'll help you." His arm leaves my waist, but his hand closes over mine, which still rests on the handle. "Just go slow."

Clutching his fingers, I carefully move one leg over the handle so that I'm sitting sidesaddle. The grassy pitch looks like it's several miles below us and my palms begin to sweat.

"Ron…"

"I've got you," he says gently. "I won't let you fall."

Trying to console myself with the thought that Harry fell from his broomstick at this height and was ultimately fine, I relocate my leg to the other side of the broom and find myself face to face with Ron.

"See?" We're still holding hands. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No, I suppose it wasn't."

"And isn't flying so much better when you don't try too hard to be perfect at it?"

"It was better," I'm willing to admit.

"It's just one of those things, you can't think too hard about it." Ron's cheeks are flushed from the wind, and I have to stop myself from smoothing down his tousled hair. "It just feels natural… it feels… right."

Is he still talking about flying?

What if I have it all wrong? What if this is just his way of trying to get me to lighten up? I've gotten my hopes up about him so many times - with the Yule Ball, when I thought he might ask me in a way that didn't involve him observing aloud that I'm a girl, and with that debacle of a Christmas party months ago - that it seems foolish to expect anything more from him. Because if he does fancy me, then why would he ever kiss Lavender to begin with?

But I really want to kiss him. I could go for it, take charge - after all, why should I expect him to make the first move? - but aside from the inherent risk of plummeting to our deaths, this would be a terribly awkward place for him to reject me.

"We should probably go inside," I suggest. "It's nearly lunchtime and we still have homework."

"Yeah," he nods, that dazed look on his face again. "Well, I don't reckon you're too keen on turning around again."

"Not particularly."

Ron drops my hand and leans forward to clutch the broom handle behind me. He shifts his weight so the broom starts floating gently toward the ground and our eyes meet. It's getting to the point now where the fear of rejection isn't nearly as strong as my desire to just take the leap. Term is ending in a few short weeks, and while I'm sure I'll spend a good portion of the summer at the Burrow, it still feels like time is slipping away. Between exams and prefect duties and worrying about Harry, we actually don't have tons of free time.

If I kiss him, the worst that happens is that it's awkward and weird or he thinks that I'm barmy and it renders our friendship irreparable. I have to decide if it's worth that risk.

Our feet touch down and the Cleansweep falls to the ground. Ron picks it up and props it on his shoulder before taking my hand.

"We'll finish Potions after lunch," he assures me as we begin to walk.

"Okay," I agree.

But as we walk back to the castle hand in hand, I have to admit that homework is the last thing on my mind.

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