A/N: Hey, do you guys know that I love you all? Thanks for all of the reviews and general awesomeness. I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

Hermione did not have to look at a calendar to know that the first Quidditch match of the year was approaching: approximately one week before, her core group of friends all found themselves deeply rooted in pre-match anxiety. Ron had always been particularly susceptible to the exorbitant amount of pressure that was placed on the student athletes, and he was constantly queasy, playing with his food at mealtimes and darting into the bathroom between classes. Ginny, as Captain, was relentless, holding practice late into the night and constantly drilling her team on plays and moves and strategies. On the Friday night before the match, Harry very casually suggested they perform wellness checks on Angelina Johnson and Oliver Wood, because Ginny seemed to have channeled their spirits as Captain.

Ron did not seem capable of joining in on the joke, however. The four of them were gathered in the eighth year boys dorm room (Dean had once again borrowed Kreacher to sneak out of the castle), Harry picking at the remains of a treacle tart that he had procured from the kitchens. The common room, they had quickly realized, was unpleasantly full of younger students clamoring around trying to hound the team.

"So Harry," Ginny went on, slapping his knee to get his attention, "I really think the Wronski Feint is your best move against Astoria Greengrass, she's got a decent broom but she's just not as good a flyer as you, she'll never recover-"

"Agreed," Harry nodded with the patient air of a man uninterested in irritating his girlfriend. "Absolutely. Will do."

Hermione shifted around on Ron's bed so she sat against the headboard, her legs bent, feet flat against the mattress. Ron, somehow, had managed to lie down on the narrow bed, his head near Hermione's hips. His face was pale, his expression vacant, as he listened to his sister continue on about the upcoming match.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly, brushing his hair away from his forehead. Nodding, he tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace than anything. "Maybe… it might help you relax if we, erm… went somewhere private together?" Hermione suggested, letting her fingers comb idly through his locks.

To her surprise, his lips pressed together so tightly they lost all color. "I would love to, believe me," he stated, voice clipped and bitter, "but I can't. Our lovely team captain has forbidden it."

"That's right," Ginny piped up from her seat on Harry's bed, evidently having overheard their discussion. "You can do anything you want after the match is over."

"My little sister is dictating my sex life," Ron grumbled. "Just kill me now."

"Well, then," Hermione decided, trying to put a positive spin on this turn of events, "we'll just wait until after the match. To celebrate."

"Or commiserate."

"Stop thinking like that!" Ginny admonished him. "You can't go into the match with that kind of negativity, I've seen what it does to you-"

"Stop listening in on my conversation!" Ron shot back, lifting his head off the pillow so he could properly glare at her.

"It's nearly ten anyway, we should all be going to bed," said Ginny. "I want the two of you down at breakfast at eight tomorrow morning and you need to be well-rested."

Deeming it unwise to do anything but go along with Ginny, Hermione crawled off the bed and stood beside it, bending over to kiss Ron goodnight.

"Stay," he beseeched her, placing a hand on the back of her thigh.

"I can't, I'm at her mercy too," Hermione said with a wave in Ginny's direction. She gave Ron one more kiss. "I'll see you in the morning."

It was, Hermione had always thought, absolute madness that each House team only played three matches each year. It placed an exorbitant amount of pressure on the athletes, it left no room for mistakes, it meant that every single match had to be played as though it were for the championship. Every goal mattered, every point mattered, and one would have thought it were a question of life or death with the weight the matches seemed to carry.

Ron spent most of breakfast carefully mashing the food on his plate into an indistinguishable mess, his hands shaky. Why do you do this to yourself? Hermione wanted to ask. How are you able to face Lord Voldemort when he's flaunting the seemingly-dead body of your best friend but not the Slytherin Quidditch team?

"Eat something," Ginny snapped to him, shoving a small plate bearing dry toast at her brother. "Otherwise your reflexes will be slowed down and you need all the reflexes you can get."

"Do you genuinely think that's helpful?" Hermione replied before she could help it, glowering at Ginny. The last thing Ron needed was any kind of negativity, though Hermione privately agreed that no harm could come from him actually keeping his food down.

"Yes, I actually do," replied Ginny. "It's Quidditch, Hermione, you wouldn't understand."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, ready to say that she may not understand Quidditch, but she understood Ron, but a large hand squeezing on her leg stopped her.

"I'm going to change," said Ron, standing up from the table. "I'll see you lot there."

The remaining hour between breakfast and the match seemed to drag on for days, with Hermione finding herself anxious and stressed on Ron's behalf. All she wanted was for him to find the confidence that she knew he had somewhere inside himself. When he believed he could fly well, when he felt worthy of being on the team, when he did not automatically expect failure from himself, he was actually pretty unstoppable. Except - and the thought made a stone drop into her stomach - thanks to her impulsive interference two years ago, he probably didn't feel worthy, did he? He was always so inclined to default to the negative when it came to his own abilities that he probably suspected that Ginny put him on the team out of some favor to Harry, or that Hermione had covertly confunded another team hopeful. Between all of that and Ginny's 'win or die trying' attitude, there was not exactly a recipe for Ron's success in place.

Against her better judgment, she made her way to the pitch, but rather than head into the stands with Luna, she crept around the back of the stadium to the entrance to the changing rooms. It only took a few quick spells to magick open the door, and she slipped inside to join the team.

"Er - Hermione?" Harry, the first to notice her, paused in the midst of doing up his robes. "You're not supposed to be in here-"

"I know that." She crossed the small room to approach Ron, who was tossing a practice Quaffle from hand to hand.

"What are you doing?" he asked, perplexed as she sat down on the bench beside him.

"I just wanted to-" To do what, exactly? To remind him that one ultimately meaningless Quidditch game didn't define him or his value? To remind him that she loved him no matter what, that it didn't matter to her if he didn't save a single goal? "To wish you luck," she decided. She turned and hugged him, not particularly offended when he didn't hug her back. "You're going to be great."

"Mhmm," he replied absently. "Thanks."

What he needed from her was positivity, so she kissed his cheek and gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. "I'm going to get a seat with Luna, I'll see you after, okay?"

"Kay." He seemed to have to force the syllable from his throat.

"Hermione, get out of here," Ginny called from across the room, surprisingly looking moderately amused. "I have to talk to my team."

Luna was not difficult to find in the stands, what with her lion headdress that she always wore whenever Gryffindor played anyone other than Ravenclaw, and Hermione joined her in the back row of the stadium. There had not been Quidditch last year, as the Carrows had outlawed anything even remotely resembling fun, so the stadium was practically shaking with excitement and energy. This, Hermione knew, essentially added a year's worth of pressure to the match, and her stomach began to roil with her own nerves for Ron. Once again, she felt compelled to wonder why he put himself through this. He loved Quidditch, but it didn't seem necessary to put himself through weeks of undue stress.

Fourteen players rose into the air, blurs of scarlet and gold, green and silver, and Ron took his place in front of the goalposts. He sat tall and confident on his broom, and Hermione smiled to herself, optimistic that her brief visit might have bolstered his spirits. As Slytherin's Chaser flew toward him, dipping and diving around Ginny and Demelza, Hermione held her breath. You've got this, Ron, she thought fiercely, hoping her faith in him could somehow be communicated across the pitch. You can do this.

Ron flew toward the Quaffle as it whizzed toward the leftmost goalpost, arm outstretched, only to have the ball just graze his fingertips as it soared through the hoop. Slytherin's section of the stadium rejoiced, Gryffindor slumped in disappointment, and Ginny flew over to Ron. She spoke to him for only a moment, her ginger ponytail blowing in the autumn wind, but it made Hermione's blood boil. What Ron needed was not to be berated and told off for his mistake: it could only cause more of them. Couldn't Ginny see that?

As play resumed, Harry brought his broom into a sharp nosedive, racing at breakneck speed to the ground and drawing gasps from the crowd. Just mere milliseconds before he would have crashed, he pulled up and spun around to see Slytherin's Seeker searching madly for what had caught his attention: she had chased eagerly after him, certain that he'd seen the Snitch. It was a distraction, Hermione realized, for the crowd more than anything, for all eyes were now on Harry rather than Ron.

The match wore on, minute by excruciating minute, and Hermione found herself robustly thankful that the Slytherins, for the time being, had not broken out into the original lyrics of 'Weasley Is Our King'. For every goal that Ginny or another Gryffindor Chaser would score, Ron would allow one from Slytherin. Hermione knew him well enough to know he was growing frustrated, discouraged, hopeless. The Snitch remained ever-elusive despite Harry's efforts to locate it as quickly as possible and put an end to the match.

If Ron had only managed to save the first goal of the match, Hermione believed the entire event would have proceeded differently, but now he was of the mindset that he couldn't succeed, that he wouldn't, that any skill he had ever displayed was the result of magical interference or Harry capitalizing on the placebo effect. If he could get out of his own head and forget about the crowds just for a second, he could be a completely different athlete. As it was, Harry managed to salvage things by grabbing the Snitch as it fluttered just above the press box, allowing Gryffindor to win by fifty points.

The moment Madame Hooch's whistle blew, Hermione scrambled out of the stands, desperate to see Ron before anyone else. His mistakes, now that Gryffindor had won, would be forgotten by all but the members of the team, but she still knew that he needed her. Buffeted by excited students, she hurried down to the pitch and made her way to the changing rooms.

Harry was first to emerge. "Thought you'd be out here," he said when he saw her. "I'll go let him know."

"Is he okay?"

Harry shrugged. "He's Ron, you know how he gets."

Five minutes lapsed after Harry retreated back into the changing rooms, during which Hermione had plenty of time to realize that she had no idea what to say to him. In the past, he had always commiserated with Harry or by himself, but she wanted to be there for him now. The problem was finding the words. Everything she wanted to say, however sincere, ran the risk of sounding cliche or hollow.

Finally Ron surfaced, still in his Quidditch robes with sweaty hair, his face difficult to read.

"Please don't," he said when he saw her, though he placed a hand on her shoulder to invite her to walk with him. "I know what you're going to say, you don't have to say it."

"What do you think I'm going to say?"

"Just the usual stuff about how it wasn't as bad as I thought, and how Gryffindor still won, and how I'm actually so good at Quidditch-" He stopped himself. "You don't have to say anything."

The frosty grass crunched beneath their feet as they walked on, not speaking. "Well," Hermione finally said, "I can think of a way to cheer you up."

Ron glanced down at himself. "I haven't even taken a shower yet, I probably smell."

"I don't mind," said Hermione honestly. His sweat-damp hair reminded her of nights over the summer when they hadn't even slept, so consumed they had been with need for each other… and she'd always liked the smell of him anyway…

"I - yeah, okay," Ron relented.

He wasn't displaying the enthusiasm that he normally would at the prospect of these sorts of activities, but Hermione wasn't taking it personally. Once they were alone together, he would forget everything else. It was what happened to her, after all: she became so caught up in him that she practically forgot who she was.

"Wait, where are we going?" asked Ron as they arrived at the seventh floor. "The common room's going to be so crowded."

"You'll see," replied Hermione, coyly leading him past the painting of the Fat Lady and around the corner toward a long, seemingly empty stretch of wall. Ron's footsteps slowed as they approached.

"Hermione…"

"Just wait a second," she said, dropping his hand and pacing three times in front of the wall. A wooden door materialized and Hermione, excited, dragged Ron toward it by the wrist.

Inside, they found a small, scantly decorated bedroom, the queen-sized bed in the middle bearing a navy blue duvet and two pillows. The room, just as Hermione had asked, had created a perfect replica of Ron's bedroom at Grimmauld Place.

"Why'd you ask it to look like this?" Ron wondered, gazing around at his duplicated belongings.

"I just thought it'd be nice to be somewhere familiar," she explained. "It'll feel more like it did over the summer."

"Right," he nodded, swallowing. Was it Hermione's imagination, or did he actually look nervous? She really hoped the self-doubt from the events of the day wouldn't carry over into this aspect of their lives: he had nothing to be worried about.

She stepped toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck, reaching up to kiss him. A long breath escaped through his nostrils as their lips met, but his entire body still felt incredibly tense.

"Ron," she mumbled between kisses - it seemed to she had to initiate every one - "I love you."

He nodded against her mouth. "Love you."

His hands were rigid on her waist, stiff and immobile as though they were two awkward teenagers dancing at the Yule Ball. Their lips were touching, her hands were in his hair but he seemed to be a million miles away. He just needed to relax, so Hermione walked him closer to the bed and moved her lips down to the column of his throat. Normally this evoked something from him - a sigh, a moan, his hands gripping her more tightly - but he was like a statue, so she pulled away and sat down on the bed, beckoning for him to join her.

Raking his hands through his messy hair, Ron cringed and squeezed his eyes shut as though he were in physical pain. "Hermione… I can't be in here right now."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," he said, looking around helplessly. "I just, I can't be here right now, I'm sorry."

Before she had the chance to say anything, he had fled from the room, the wooden door so like his at home shaking slightly from the force of his departure. Hermione sat, dumbfounded, in the falsified version of the room in which she had spent so many nights with him, and tried to make sense of the day's events.

When she had found she could no longer bear ruminating over it, she proceeded back to the Gryffindor common room. It was in absolute disarray, as was to be expected after a victory, with drinks and trays of food scattered everywhere and loud, raucous merriment. Ron was nowhere to be seen but Harry stood against the far wall, bottle of butterbeer in hand, watching Ginny celebrate her first victory as Captain. Hermione made a beeline over to him.

"Have you ever turned down sex?" she inquired. Harry froze, bottle of butterbeer halfway to his mouth.

"Excuse me?"

"Answer the question, Harry."

"I-" He quickly scanned the party to make sure nobody was listening in. "Well, no, not to my recollection. I'm pretty sure my hair would have to actively be on fire or something," he added with a chuckle. "Why do you ask?" He furrowed his brow at her. "Where's Ron?"

"He hasn't come through here?"

Harry shook his head and sipped from his bottle. "Haven't seen him, but I reckoned he was with you."

"He was, but…" And Hermione briefly explained what had happened in the Room of Requirement. "You really haven't seen him at all?"

"No, but - Hermione, you know how he gets after these things when it doesn't go so well."

"I just thought it would cheer him up," she admitted. Harry laughed again.

"Yeah, it probably would have done. So are you saying the Room of Requirement is free right now?"

"Yes…"

"Good luck," Harry concluded with a friendly pat to Hermione's shoulder before striding purposefully away.

Feeling no better than before their conversation, Hermione watched as Harry approached Ginny, spoke into her ear, and then led her out of the portrait hole. The party carried on without missing a beat and Hermione, hardly in the mood for any festivity, dragged herself up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. Ron would have to come back eventually, and when he did, she would be waiting. His dorm room was empty so she removed her shoes and socks, tucking them under his bed, and crawled between the blankets. Never before had she fully appreciated how much she missed sleeping in a bed that smelled like him...

"Hi, there," said Ron, standing over her with an affectionate smirk. Hermione's eyes flew open - she hadn't meant to fall asleep - as he slipped into the bed beside her. "This is quite the surprise."

"Oh, hi," Hermione replied as Ron found her lips with his. "Are we alone in here?"

"Mhmm," he said, kissing her again. "It's almost dinnertime."

His mood seemed to have done a complete turnaround; maybe time was all he had needed.

"Did you put the X on the door?" she asked.

"Should I?"

Hermione nodded so Ron shoved back the blankets and jumped up, using his wand to quickly etch a warning into the door. He returned, shedding the outermost layer of his robes as he crawled over her.

It was as though the earlier scene in the Room of Requirement had never happened. There would be time to talk later; right now, all Hermione could think was how badly she wanted to be close to him, and the layers of clothing between them weren't allowing that to happen. Ron seemed just as eager to feel her skin and they wasted no time stripping off robes and uniforms and undergarments until not a shred of fabric remained. Their kisses were long, slow, deep; Ron ran a hand up her side and over her breast, lightly pinching her nipple. She shivered at his touch and arched her back into him as he slid his tongue along her lower lip. Hermione reached down between their sweaty, sticky bodies and stroked her hand up and down his length, positioning him between her thighs.

With an achingly soft kiss to her lips, Ron sank inside and began to undulate their hips together. Hermione, clamping her knees at his sides, released a quiet moan and used his shoulders to pull him closer.

"Go slow," she whispered into his ear. Ron nodded and kissed her, languorously sliding in and out. She wanted the moment to last forever, to always be this connected to him, to feel like nothing else mattered or even existed. When they were together like this, her senses flooded with the sight of his vibrant hair and his voice in her ear, she could let go of everything and focus solely on him.

Ron finished inside her trembling, quaking body and immediately kissed her, though he was still out of breath. Hermione's entire body seemed to have melted: it was all she could do to kiss him back before he rolled off of her. With lazy, tingling fingers, Hermione turned onto her side and grazed her nails over his chest.

"Ooh, don't," he laughed, shuddering at her touch. "That feels really good, I'm going to get… ideas."

"You seem to be feeling better," Hermione commented.

"Er, yeah, well - I mean, it always helps to find a gorgeous witch in your bed," he teased her. "Kinda just needed time, I reckon."

"I didn't mean to fall asleep, I just thought I'd wait for you." Rolling onto her stomach, Hermione placed a kiss on his jaw. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"It's all right," he mumbled, pressing his lips to her shoulder and neck.

"No, I should've known you wouldn't want to go there so soon after the match."

Ron's lips left her skin with a jarring quickness; he studied her as though she had suddenly begun speaking French.

"What does the match have to do with it?"

"Well…" Hermione's mind was racing now; she felt as though things should have been clicking together that weren't. "I mean, you seemed upset, I should have known you'd need to cool down a bit before you were in the mood to-"

"Yeah, I played like shit, but that wasn't the problem." He abruptly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, retrieving his pants from the floor and pulling them on.

Stupefied, Hermione followed his lead and sought out her own underwear. So much for their blissed-out afterglow. "What was wrong, then?" she asked as she secured the clasp on her bra. "Was it something I did?"

Once again, Ron stared at her as though he couldn't comprehend her presence and yanked a white vest over his head. "You really don't have any idea? No guesses?"

"You don't have to be mean, Ron, maybe you could just tell me."

"Well, it's over now anyway, so let's just move on from it." In a different context, Hermione might have found it comical how quickly he was dressing. "Let's just go down to dinner or something."

"No, I want to talk about this-"

"Fine, then I'm going."

How was it possible, Hermione wondered as the door closed behind him, for him to be so open and vulnerable one minute and then completely closed off the next?

What didn't he want to talk about?

Thanks for reading! Please review :) And I promise, a lot of questions will be answered in the next chapter...