Author's Note: Okay, so I know this is shorter. I originally wanted to make it part of the first chapter, but it just seemed to make more sense on it's own. I hope you enjoy. Also, like I said, this is my first go at a Harry Potter Fanfiction, and I really want to get the characters right, so if anything seems off, please let me know. Please enjoy and review!
Chapter Two: What He Heard
Ron lay in his bed fuming, thinking about what he had heard.
He had been walking back to his room, when he heard Hermione and Harry talk. She had been so mad at him lately, he knew if her went into the room, she's flee, and for some reason that he did not quite understand, he found he wanted to hear her voice. Besides, maybe he would find out why she was so mad at him,
"He is your best mate."
He heard her say, and then she made this cute hiccupy noise.
"He might understand."
"How could I even, I mean, if I told him how I felt, he'd murder me."
Were they talking about him? Felt about what? What could Harry tell Hermione that he could not tell him?
"There's nothing wrong with caring for somebody Harry, believe me, I know."
Oh, so this was about somebody Harry fancied. Why couldn't he tell Ron that; was he embarrassed or something? Why would Ron murder him?
"Well, I suppose we're both in this."
What was that? How were they both…?
"Well, I can't tell Ron how I feel, obviously, but your situation with him is rather different, isn't it?"
"I suppose."
"Still, we do both feel this way, and it's killing us both, and neither of us can tell Ron, or tell anybody."
They both feel what way? Ron felt himself getting frantic. His heart was beating so fast, but he was trying hard not to jump to conclusions.
"I'm just glad we have each other. I don't know what I'd do without you Hermione."
No. No, it couldn't be. Please, dear lord, don't let it be!
"I know the feeling. Being able to talk to you this year, I've never had feelings like this before, I didn't know what to do with them, but you … you've been wonderful."
How's he been wonderful? What did she mean wonderful? She couldn't mean that. Please, let her mean anything but that!
He heard Hermione's beautiful, musical laugh.
"I'm actually rather surprised, considering how you dealt with Cho. Who knew you'd actually know what to do in this kind of situation."
"Hey."
And then there was silence. What were they doing? Why had they stopped talking? Harry had had difficulty kissing Cho, because she kept crying. But that couldn't be why they had gone quiet, could it, they couldn't be…
"You're hiccups seem to have went away."
He heard Harry say. Was that a way to get rid of hiccups? But then, her hiccups had stopped a while ago. So then, why was Harry mentioning it now?
Ron felt the anger boil in him. He had to do something. He had to stop this happening,
"Yes, I suppose they have."
He pushed on the door, bursting it open, and saw Harry and Hermione wrapped up in each other's arms. When she saw Ron, she stepped away from Harry so fast, for a second he was able to hope he had imagined them embracing. But no, they certainly had been embracing. And why had Hermione pulled away, had she been feeling guilty, embarrassed perhaps. Well, who cares what she felt. They could both go to hell for all he cared.
Harry and Hermione. How could it happen? True, he had always no it was a possibility, but he had always hoped… Ron tossed and turned a little in his bed, punching his pillow. How could they? He though. How could harry? How could she? The thought repulsed him. He felt like he might throw up. He heard Harry snoring, and thought about how much he'd like to strangle him right now. But that wasn't right; Harry was his best mate. But then, what they were doing wasn't right either, sneaking around, lying to him, and about this of all things! How could they! How dare they! But then, what right did he have to complain? After all, he was with Lavender. But it's not the same thing. Said a voice in his head. How was it different then? He thought on it, finding no answers, until finally, thankfully, he felt himself drift off to sleep.