A/N: Thank you all so much again for reading and reviewing and generally being wonderful. I hope you like this next one...


Hermione spent the afternoon scouring the castle, looking for any sign of Ron, but he had somehow managed to make himself undetectable, and around dinnertime, she dragged herself back to her dormitory and flung herself face down on the bed. She had intended to take that small tidbit of information to her grave, knowing it would do nothing but hurt him and dredge up old unfounded insecurities. And now, because Harry Potter didn't know how to keep his mouth shut, Ron was rightfully furious.

Or was he furious? He had looked more betrayed than anything else, and it was that look in his eyes that made Hermione feel physically ill. She had caused that. The person who she loved more than anything else, who she trusted with her life, she had made him feel that way. And while it had taken place years ago, long before they had ever kissed, long before either of them had ever said 'I love you' (even in that weary, thank-you-for-fixing-my-essay sort of way Ron had once done), the wound for him was fresh and raw and real. But she did love him, and she did have faith in him, and if she had to spend her life proving that to him, she would.

"Hi," said a tentative voice from the doorway. Hermione rolled over to see Ginny, still in her practice robes, holding a plate bearing a sandwich and a sliced apple. "Are you okay?"

Sniffling, Hermione wiped her cheeks. "Yeah," she croaked, forcing herself to sit up. "Have you seen Ron?"

"No." Ginny crossed the room to perch on the end of Hermione's bed. "He didn't come to dinner. But I brought you this, in case you want it."

"Thanks."

"Harry feels really terrible," Ginny said as she placed the plate on the bed between them.

"Oh, well, that'll fix it then, Harry feeling bad about starting it in the first place."

"And Ron'll calm down," added Ginny. "He'll get over it."

"No, you don't get it," Hermione said, watching a fat tear drop onto the crimson duvet. "This is - for him, this is confirmation of every bad thing he's ever thought about himself."

"But it was so long ago, everything's so different now."

"You know how he's always joking around, saying he's not good enough for me?" It had been a running joke all summer, compounded by George sporadically guessing spells or potions that he thought Ron might be using to hoodwink Hermione into a relationship. "He's not really joking, he really thinks that. But the thing is, most days, I don't think I'm good enough for him." She exhaled shakily. "But he's never going to see it that way, especially not now."

"So… why don't you just tell him that?"

"If I could locate him, I would."

"Well, he can't skip practice tomorrow morning or I'll kick him off the team," Ginny said with a smile. "He might be my brother, but I'm still Captain."

The sandwich sat abandoned on the end table overnight as Hermione tossed and turned, trying to compose her thoughts enough so that tomorrow morning, when she cornered him before his practice, she would be able to adequately explain. He had to know, on a core, subconscious level, how much she truly loved him, even if his mind was too clouded right now to allow him to feel it. At this point in their lives, he had to know that he was her favorite person in the world, that she thought he was clever and funny and immensely brave. And he had to trust her that she was telling him the truth when she said these things.

Eight-thirty on Sunday morning saw Hermione waiting somewhat impatiently outside of the changing room at the Quidditch pitch, hoping to intercept Ron on his way in. The whole of the team eventually trickled by, including a sympathetic Ginny and a very morose Harry, who tried to stop to talk before Ginny dragged him away by the sleeve. Finally, at five minutes until nine, Ron walked up, his Cleansweep on his shoulder.

"Ron," Hermione said, seizing the moment before he reached for the door, "can I talk to you?"

"I have practice," he said flatly, jaw set.

Hermione, however, was not the type of witch who took no for an answer. "How about after, then? I could stay and watch-"

"That's all right," he replied, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past her head. "It's just practice, I don't reckon I'll need magical interference."

"I just want to talk to you, please-"

"I have practice," he repeated, disappearing into the locker room.

Hermione didn't sit in the stands during practice, knowing that her presence would have no positive impact on Ron, but she didn't go back to the castle, either. Instead she stayed outside of the changing room, knowing that he had to leave sooner or later, knowing that he couldn't avoid her forever. If there was one thing she wanted to avoid, it was allowing this to turn into another Ron and Hermione cold war, a silent standoff in which they went months without speaking or interacting at all. She had done it too many times before and she did not want to do it again. She would not lose him.

Not without a fight, anyway. Not without knowing it was completely unsalvageable.

When Ron emerged he was flushed and sweaty and Hermione couldn't help but find it a bit attractive, but she pulled herself back to the task at hand.

"Can we take a walk?" she asked hopefully, falling into step with him. "I really want to talk-"

"Hermione," he interrupted, stopping and facing her. "I can't talk to you right now. I'm not trying to be an arsehole, I'm not, I just - I can't do it right now."

She had seen Ron, over the past seven years, in just about every possible mood. She had seen him angry and grieving and overjoyed and upset and so she knew, looking at his bright blue eyes, that he wasn't even mad at her. He was just hurt, and that was the worst of it.

"I know I was wrong," she began, "but we have to talk about it, I don't want it to be months-"

"It won't be." His voice was low and calm. "I just need a couple days, okay?"

"Ron, I love you," she blurted out, desperate to at least tell him that.

"I know you do," he said softly. "But that's not the same as having faith in me."

•••

There was a time, several months ago, when Hermione had been so livid with Ron, so crushed by his behavior, that she had rebuffed his every attempt to apologize, she'd made sniping, thinly-veiled comments, she'd found even the simplest, most mundane conversation unbearably painful. Back then, Ron had been the one who had made the mistake and he hadn't expected forgiveness or friendship and he certainly hadn't tried to restore their previous almost-relationship. He had given her exactly what she needed, which was space. And so now, even though it went against her every instinct, her every impulse to seek him out and force him to listen, she did what he wanted. She let him be.

She ate her meals alone, early, quickly, and then spent any remaining free time in the library or working with the Head Boy (Anthony Goldstein, Ravenclaw, another Muggleborn who had gone on the run last year) to schedule prefect rounds. She saw Ron in class, where Harry did his best to act as a buffer, trying to strike up cordial conversation, but he was wholly unsuccessful. Often, during quiet moments before class or in the Great Hall, Hermione would catch Ron looking at her when he didn't think she was paying attention.

But by Thursday, the five days spent with no communication were beginning to wear on her. After his triumphant return to the tent back in December, she had at least spoken to him when necessary, even if it wasn't about the actual issue at hand. Ron, however subdued he might have been, had made not one attempt at any sort of conversation.

And so, in the evening lull after dinner, Hermione forewent the library for once and instead headed to the common room. Harry and Ginny were seated on the floor by the fireplace, elaborate Quidditch diagrams strewn about around them, while Ron sat in a corner of the sofa with a book open on his lap. Slowly, Hermione drew toward him.

"Ron?" His head popped up as she seated herself on the sofa, a good two feet away from him. "If you want to break up - if that's what this is - can… can you just tell me so that-"

"No," he interrupted, shifting around to face her and looking horrified. "No, I don't want to break up with you, not at all."

"Well, then, can we please just go somewhere so I can explain? Because I hate this, I really miss you."

To her surprise, Ron agreed, abandoning his textbook and leading her through the portrait hole. The corridors were quiet, as it was nearly curfew, but Hermione wasn't concerned with being out after hours. She was Head Girl; she wasn't going to get detention.

They were halfway down a moving staircase when Hermione finally found her voice.

"The reason I did it," she began, "is just because I knew you deserved to be on the team, I knew you were the best person for it and I just thought I should make sure of it."

Ron didn't speak, instead jamming his hands into the pockets of his robes. His eyes were cast to the stone floor as they walked.

"Okay, but you didn't think I could do that on my own, did you?"

"I just really wanted to see you get on the team, I knew how much it mattered to you and I knew you deserved it."

"How, exactly, did you know that?" he asked as they stepped onto the sixth floor. "The only match I didn't play like shit in during fifth year was the one you missed, remember?"

"Because I know you!" Hermione stopped in front of a suit of armor. "I know how good you can be when you actually get out of your own head and just trust yourself."

"It's not about Quidditch, really, I know I'm not as good as Ginny or Harry or Charlie… it's just - you wouldn't know what it's like," he muttered, watching himself scuff the toe of his shoe against the floor. "You're brilliant and everyone knows it. Nobody expects you to fail and then goes 'oh good, you didn't fuck up this time' when you manage not to."

"But I don't think that at all," Hermione insisted. "Ron, I think you're amazing, I really do. You know, you're always saying how I'm this brilliant person, so if I thought you were this failure that you keep saying you are, would I want to be with you?"

The tips of his ears turned red. "Don't reckon you would."

"I love you," said Hermione, stepping forward to set her hands on his shoulders. "I really do."

"I love you too." Ron dropped his forehead to hers and then touched their lips together, first gently and then with such intensity that Hermione's knees nearly buckled. "Five days is way too long to go without kissing you."

Hermione hummed her agreement, circling her arms around his neck and rising on her toes to be closer to him.

"Why don't we…" Ron backed her up against the wall and claimed her lips hungrily with his. "Go somewhere…" His hand squeezed her hip. "So we can be alone…"

Hermione nodded, about to open her mouth and make a suggestion, when the garbled yowl of an elderly cat cut through the fog of lust and need surrounding them. Mrs. Norris, evidently, had taken serious offense to their activities and alerted Filch, who hobbled angrily toward them, brandishing a mop.

"Back to your common room!" he barked, jabbing Ron's shoulder with the wooden handle of the mop. "You're out after curfew!"

"Fine, fine, we're going," said Ron, grabbing Hermione's hand and hurrying out of reach of the mop. Mrs. Norris' aggravated wails grew quieter as they headed up to the seventh floor. "I guess we're not going somewhere private after all."

The common room was still rather crowded when they returned, but this didn't stop Hermione from snuggling up against him as she reviewed her Arithmancy charts, sneaking kisses whenever the impulse arose. They both seemed to feel they had a bit of lost time to make up for, even if it momentarily made them the most disgusting couple in Gryffindor. Just this once, it was worth it.

•••

"I have an idea," said Ron, his voice low and furtive as they walked out of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Friday morning was bright and sunny, the corridors of Hogwarts alive with energy. "What if we skive off lunch and go back to my room?"

"R-really?"

"Yeah, no one'll be there, it'll be perfect, we'll have a whole hour to ourselves."

Hermione regarded him thoughtfully. It had been more difficult than anticipated to find quality time alone with him, especially given that they were in a fight for nearly a week, and she had to admit to herself that an hour with him in his bed sounded much more appealing than lunch in the Great Hall.

"Okay," she agreed, causing his eyes to widen with poorly-masked surprise. "I'll see you there in five minutes."

"See ya," he grinned, heading off down the corridor. Hermione smiled; if there was one thing Ron would gladly miss a meal for, it was this.

Her patience didn't quite hold out the way she had hoped. She didn't want it to be dreadfully obvious that they were both going up to the boys' dormitory and yet she wanted to maximize on their time together, and the latter won out. Her five minute delay diminished into a mere two, and when she walked through the door on the boys' side of the tower labeled EIGHTH YEARS (the first and only of its kind), Ron had only gotten as far as removing his shoes and socks.

The circular room only had three beds, one each for Ron, Harry and Dean Thomas, and Ron's was right in the middle. Ron shed his robes, leaving him just in his uniform, and Hermione followed suit. Left just in her crisp white blouse and charcoal skirt, Hermione padded across the floor to meet their lips. As Ron sat on the unmade bed and pulled her onto his lap, Hermione let herself sink into the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth. They had time, she had to remind herself. She was so accustomed to restricting herself to quick, chaste pecks that to now act on her desires felt like a privilege.

Ron's hands gripped her waist, untucking the hem of her blouse, his palm flattening against the warm skin of her stomach. Sliding off of his lap, Hermione laid back on the bed and used his collar to bring him on top of her. The kisses grew more eager, more passionate; Ron's hands were everywhere, undoing buttons on her shirt one instant and skimming over her hips the next. The air was filled with the sound of panting, ragged breaths and rustling sheets and the occasional moan or whispered word. Ron ran his hand up Hermione's thigh and under her skirt, seeking out the fabric between her legs and guiding it down, tossing it recklessly to the floor.

"Fuck," Ron muttered, pressing his fingers against the warmth at her center. "You're really wet already." The eleven days since their last coupling felt more like eleven months; Hermione widened her legs, allowing him to push a finger inside her, then two.

"Ron," Hermione gasped, angling her hips into his hand. "Ron, let's just…" As good as his hand felt, she wanted to feel so much more of him. He nodded rapidly and removed his fingers, setting back to work on the buttons holding her blouse together, his lips locked onto her neck-

A great creaking of ancient hinges erupted through the room and Hermione froze as the half-embarrassed, half-amused laughter of one Dean Thomas hit her ears.

"Shit, I'm sorry," chuckled Dean, who had almost doubled over laughing at the sight of them and their discarded robes. "So sorry."

Ron squeezed his eyes tightly shut, his face tomato red, his teeth digging into his lower lip. "Can you just bugger off for like, a half hour?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean agreed, "sorry, mate."

The door slammed shut again. Ron shook his head briefly as though trying to clear the memory of the last ten seconds and then moved to kiss Hermione again, but the mood was broken and she was now acutely aware that she was in Gryffindor Tower where anyone, evidently, could barge in at any moment. What if they'd been quicker to return to the dorm, quicker to undress? It was starting to feel like there was no such thing as true privacy in the castle.

"We should stop," Hermione said, sitting up from underneath Ron and trying to smooth down her hair. "We really shouldn't be doing this."

"No, it's okay, nobody's going to walk in now, I can guarantee you that," said Ron as he knelt between her legs, sitting back on his heels.

"I'm not even supposed to be up here, really, and - and it's grounds for expulsion," Hermione babbled on, aware that Ron was looking at her like she had grown a second head, "engaging in sexual activity on castle grounds, and-"

"All we're doing is snogging, really-"

"My knickers are on the floor!"

"Oh, yeah," said Ron, peering over the edge of the bed at the swatch of purple satin, which stood out like a sore thumb against the black of their robes. "But it's just Dean, he doesn't care, he's not going to tell anyone. Maybe Harry to warn him, but that's all."

"But I also think I forgot to take my potion this morning-"

"So that's what charms are for-"

"And I have to go to the library anyway," Hermione concluded in a rush of words, clambering off the bed and fetching her clothing from the floor.

"No you don't, it's Friday," Ron objected, dumbfounded as she wiggled back into her knickers. "If you changed your mind, it's okay, but at least stay and talk to me."

Hermione was already shoving her feet into her shoes.

"I'll see you at dinner, okay?"

Before he could answer, she had gone.


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