Author's Note:

Heartfelt thanks to everyone who reviewed and PM'd in the last couple of weeks, I read and appreciated every one, I promise you. Apologies for not being able to reply to you all, but my life has been rather up in the air lately. I am currently staying in a friend's spare room while I continue to search for somewhere permanent to live, and am living out of a suitcase with all my belongings stacked up in boxes around me, so I do hope you'll excuse me for any delay. If it helps, Chapter 11 (my favourite chapter!) is mostly complete, so once things are sorted out on the home front, I should be able to get it finished and everything back on track again. Fingers crossed, anyway!

PB x

Chapter Ten: Dirt

For the next few days Ron's mother kept them all busy cleaning the house. Hermione found that she rather enjoyed it, the physical work made a change for her, and the constant sibling banter between Ron, Ginny and the twins made her laugh more than she could remember doing in ages. Seeing him interact with his family explained a lot about why Ron was like he was. He really did seem to bear the brunt of most of the twins' teasing, at least without Percy there to wind up instead. They were noticeably a lot more lenient on Ginny, possibly because she was a girl, or the youngest, or just a lot less fun to tease. Ron's sarcastic "our precious little sister" was starting to make a lot more sense now that she was spending so much time with them all. Of course, it was also that Ron seemed to take things to heart much more than the others did, and that just made it worse. Since they were guaranteed a reaction, they carried on prodding him.

As an only child, she wasn't quite sure how to react to the twins' teasing herself. Several times now she'd taken them completely seriously, and had been mortified when she eventually realised it was just a joke. Most of the time she knew when Ron was making a joke by the tone of his voice if not the actual content, but the twins were a different proposition entirely. She knew she had a reputation for being rather serious, and she didn't want them to think she was offended or upset by their teasing, but sometimes she just did not know how she should react. It was an odd feeling, to be included in this large, loud, boisterous family that was so different from her own. Ginny was becoming like the sister she'd never had and always wanted, the twins were like older brothers, and Ron - well, no, Ron wasn't at all like a brother. Harry was her substitute brother. Ron was just Ron.

There had been two more stroppy letters from Harry in the last week. He was obviously very frustrated at being shut up with the Dursleys, and she felt guilty for not wanting him to join them quite as much as she should. The physical work combined with the absence of Harry meant that she almost managed to forget about the war, and You Know Who, and Cedric's death, and was able to just enjoy herself and concentrate her mind on the job in hand. She would be glad to see him again of course, but at the same time getting to spend so much time with Ron, just messing about and having a laugh like normal teenagers should, had been wonderful. She would feel a distinct pang of regret when it was over.

One morning, she and Ron were given the task of cleaning one of the upstairs bedrooms. They'd removed and cleaned all the furniture from the room the day before, and now they were cleaning the empty room ready to put it all back in again. Ron had spent the last half an hour on his knees scrubbing the floor while she washed down the wallpaper with a damp sponge.

"Jesus," he grumbled, rolling his shoulders and looking pained, "This is the worst job in the world. My bloody back's killing me."

"I know," agreed Hermione, "My arms are aching really badly as well."

"We should go on strike," said Ron, his eyes lighting up, "Tell Mum we won't do any more work until our demands are met!"

She laughed. "Yes, except we've got nothing to bargain with. If we withhold our labour, we just don't get fed."

Ron groaned. "Oh, God, you're right. We're not even being paid for this. God, this really sucks. Two bloody weeks I've been stuck in this house and I haven't seen daylight once. How does Sirius stand it? It must be like being in Azkaban all over again."

"Well, to be fair to your mum, the bits we have cleaned are much nicer."

"Let's escape!" exclaimed Ron, suddenly.

She laughed. "Escape?"

"Yeah, why not? What's to stop us just walking out of the door? It's not like we're gonna go looking for Death Eaters, is it? We could just walk around the block and come back again. I bet no-one would even miss us."

She shook her head. "When I tried to go outside, you practically wrestled me to the floor to stop me leaving, remember?"

"Yeah, well, that was different," mumbled Ron, flushing at the memory. "Anyway, we'd be together, wouldn't we? What's the worst that could happen?"

She felt herself grow warm all over. The idea of escaping together was rather thrilling. It would only be for half an hour, after all. What could happen to them in half an hour? But in the next instant, she remembered Ron's "Fred thinks we're an obvious target" and knew that it was impossible.

"We can't," she said, sadly. "It wouldn't be fair to your mum. She'd panic if you were missing, you know she would."

"Fine," sighed Ron, "Be sensible, then. I just thought you might like to get outside and see the sunshine, that's all."

"I would," she admitted, "But it's just too risky. I'm sorry. It was a good idea, though."

Ron gave a disbelieving snort of laughter. "Yeah, you're right; ideas aren't really my forte, are they? Maybe I should just stick to scrubbing floors and leave the ideas to people who know what they're talking about."

"It was a good idea," she insisted, annoyed. Why did he always assume she was being sarcastic when she paid him a compliment?

"Yeah, if I wanted to get us both killed by Death Eaters," muttered Ron, darkly.

"I'd love to go for a walk with you!" she blurted out, then gasped and bit her lip, afraid that she had said too much.

Ron, however, seemed to assume she was just saying it to be nice. "I'd probably just get us lost, anyway. I've only ever seen the outside of this place in the dark." He shook his head. "I mean, I don't even know whereabouts in London we are! All these streets look the same to me."

"Well," she said fairly, "I suppose you're just not used to a lot of roads, that's all."

"I grew up in the country, not the fifteenth century," said Ron, scathingly. "I've been on roads before."

She flushed. "I know, I didn't mean -"

But he buried his head in his hands and made a frustrated sound. "Oh, look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. It's not you. I'm just... a bit fed up today, that's all."

He lifted his head again and looked at her. "It's this house, I swear, it's doing my head in. It's just, you know, not being able to go outside, and Fred and George are driving me mental, and Ginny's being a pain in the arse, and Mum's on my back all the time, and I haven't even seen Dad in about three days because he's off doing God knows what for the Order, and there's all this business with Percy, and my best mate's really pissed off with me and oh God, tell me to shut up, please!"

She couldn't help laughing at this little tirade and he managed a rather embarrassed smile too. "Sorry. Seriously, though, I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here. Probably go nuts and challenge Kreacher to a duel or something."

She laughed, despite herself. "Don't you dare!"

"I don't know what you're defending him for, he'd definitely win. I can't use magic 'til I'm seventeen, and he belongs to a family of dark wizards and probably knows loads of really dodgy spells. In fact, if you ever find me dead in my room, you'll know exactly where to find the culprit."

"He's ill, Ron!"

"He's not ill, he's just..." - he searched his brain for exactly the right word - "Cracked. Not that it's entirely his fault, mind. I mean, can you imagine what it must have been like growing up in this house? No wonder Sirius left home at sixteen. I bet he couldn't wait to leave; it's like living in a morgue."

He started laughing. "A morgue with really terrible wallpaper! You know, I'm not surprised his brother became a Death Eater. If I had to sleep in a room with this wallpaper in it, I'd want to kill people too."

She smiled. "I know. It's like the opposite of your house. This is all dark and depressing and cold, and your house is warm and bright and full of life."

Ron chuckled. "Full of crap, you mean."

She laughed. "Well, that's the one thing they do have in common, I'll give you that. I've only been in two wizarding houses, but they've both been… well, let's just say, not exactly minimalist."

"Mini-what?"

"Minimalist. It's a Muggle term. It means... er, how to explain… neat. Clean. No, that's not right, your house is always clean, I didn't mean that. Empty of stuff is probably a better way to put it. Usually it means the whole place is painted white or very pale colours."

Ron laughed. "Yeah, that's definitely a Muggle thing. I've been to a lot of wizarding houses and I've never seen one painted white. They all have a lot of stuff in them, too. Mind you, they've mostly been old family houses. I suppose if you lived on your own and didn't have much money you'd probably manage perfectly well with a bed and a chair. Well, you wouldn't, obviously. You'd need thirty-two bookcases as well."

"Oh, at least," she joked, and they both laughed.

"So if I got expelled…" he began, "Could I -"

"Why would you get expelled?" she interrupted.

He pretended to consider. "I'm thinking it would probably involve violence, and Draco Malfoy's face."

She laughed out loud. "Oh, okay, carry on!"

He laughed too. "So, what, you think that's perfectly reasonable, do you?"

"Oh, absolutely! Although if I were Headmistress -"

"Oh, yeah, I can totally imagine you as Headmistress! Ha ha, you'd love that! Bossing everyone around from your big office!"

"If I were Headmistress," she shouted over his laughter, "I wouldn't expel you for punching Malfoy, I'd give you a Special Award for Services to the School!"

"Well, yeah… but you'd probably just be scared it would come out that you'd already punched him yourself 'cos you didn't want to get sacked…"

"I don't think anyone would sack me for punching Malfoy. Actually, I rather suspect there'd be a long queue of people behind me waiting their turn."

"Yeah, you could charge 'em. 'Roll up, roll up, throw a punch at Malfoy, only three Sickles!' Oh, my God, you could make a fortune! Hey, Mum!" he pretended to call out into the hall, "I think I've finally decided what I want to do when I grow up!"

"When?" teased Hermione, "Don't you mean, 'if'?"

"Har har," said Ron, dryly. "How old's that joke now?"

"Almost as old as some of yours," Hermione threw back.

He clutched his chest as though she'd delivered a mortal blow, and she laughed, then remembered something. "So you were going to tell me what you'd do if you got expelled...?"

"Oh, yeah! No, I was just gonna say; if I got expelled and couldn't get a job, could I come and live in your house and be, like, Guardian of the Books or something? I mean, you'd need someone to dust them every day, wouldn't you?"

Hermione pretended to consider. "Hmm… that's actually not a bad idea. You could wear a nice smart uniform and a little hat."

Ron raised his eyebrows at her. "A little hat?"

"Yes, a little peaked cap, like bus conductors wear." Inspiration suddenly struck her, and she bit back a laugh. "Or maybe… ha ha… a hairnet!"

Ron shot her a deathly glare, but the corners of his mouth were twitching with repressed laughter. "A hairnet?"

"Yes, so you don't moult over the books."

"Moult? I'm not a fucking Alsatian!"

"No, that's true," she said, mock-thoughtfully, "You're more like a big red Irish setter, aren't you?"

"Oh, thanks!" retorted Ron. "Well, in that case, with that hair, you're obviously a poodle!"

She put her hands on her hips in pretend indignation. "Excuse me? A poodle?"

Ron was laughing so hard now he was practically doubled up, clutching at his ribs. "Oh, God, that's exactly what you look like! A poodle! I can't believe I've never noticed the resemblance before! Ha ha ha!"

"Right!" shouted Hermione over his laughter, "You asked for it!", and she pretended to throw the wet sponge at him. Ron ducked automatically, then realised she hadn't thrown it, grabbed the brush from the floor beside him and pretended to throw it back at her.

She shrieked, and ducked herself, and this time did throw the sponge, which took Ron by surprise and hit him square in the chest, exploding dirty water all down his front and into his face. His shocked expression made her scream with laughter. He grabbed the sponge from the floor, jumped to his feet, and hurled it back at her before she had time to duck. It glanced off the side of her head, showering her with droplets of filthy water, and she squealed loudly.

"What in the name of Merlin is going on here?"

Ron's mother was standing in the doorway, bearing a tray laden with two large steaming cups of tea and a small plate of shortbread biscuits, and red-faced with fury.

"You are supposed to be cleaning this room, not making it worse!"

"Sorry, Mrs. Weasley," mumbled Hermione, meekly.

"Yeah, sorry, Mum," mumbled Ron, trying and failing to stifle his laughter. Hermione bit back a giggle. This did nothing to improve Molly's mood.

"And to think I thought you deserved a tea break after all your hard work! Minerva McGonagall even brought some shortbread for everyone. I can see I shouldn't have bothered!"

"We're really, really, sorry," said Ron, clearly alarmed by the possibility she might take the tea and biscuits away again. "It was all my fault. Hermione had nothing to do with it."

"I have no doubt about that," retorted his mother, crisply. "Honestly, you keep telling me not to treat you like children, but I can't even trust you to get on with one simple task without everything descending into chaos! I've already had to tell off Fred and George once this morning, I haven't got time to -"

"Have you?" asked Ron, eagerly, "Why? What did they do?"

"Never you mind!" she snapped back, "You just concentrate on your own work and don't start worrying about what everyone else is doing! And are you going to let me stand here holding this tray for the entire morning?"

"Sorry," repeated Ron, quickly taking the tray from her hands and lowering it carefully to the floor. "Thanks, Mum."

"Yes, thank you," added Hermione, hastily, "We really do appreciate it."

"Hmph," said Molly, slightly placated. "Well… if I hear so much as a squeak from this room, you will both be cleaning it all over again this afternoon. Do you hear me?"

They both murmured their assent, and with one last disapproving glare in her son's direction, she swept from the room.

"Oh, no!" moaned Hermione, burying her face in her hands, "I feel awful! She's been working so hard, and she's so worried about Percy, and -"

Ron crossed the room in a few long strides and closed the door firmly. "Oh, don't worry about it. She likes telling us off. It gives her a sense of purpose. For Christ's sake, it was only a wet sponge."

They caught each other's eye and started laughing again. There was just something inherently funny about the phrase 'wet sponge'.

"Don't!" protested Hermione, weakly, "She'll hear us!"

Ron gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine! Let's have our tea and we can crack on with it again after. There's only an hour or so 'til lunch, anyway."

Hermione affected shock. "How can you possibly be thinking about lunch already? You only had breakfast an hour ago!"

He laughed, and she shook her head in disbelief."I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, we are talking about someone who once ate an entire Easter egg in four minutes flat."

"Three and a half minutes, if I remember rightly. Do you want some of this shortbread or not?"

"Alright, we can stop for five minutes, but afterwards we really need to get on with it. This room's not even half done. And let's swap. I'll do the floor and you can do the wallpaper."

"Fine," he agreed, "My knees could do with the rest." He threw her a sly smile. "Are you sure I can be trusted with a wet sponge, though?"

"I'm sure you can," she laughed. "I was the one who threw it, after all."

"Oh, that's right!" he exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead in pretend realisation, "So remind me, why did I tell her it was all my fault again?"

"I've no idea. You must have a guilty conscience, I suppose. Have you been doing anything else your Mum wouldn't be happy about?"

Ron chuckled. "Lots of things!"

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Oh, yes? Like what?"

"Nothing I'd tell you," he retorted. "Come on, let's drink this before it goes cold."

For the next half an hour they worked in companionable silence, both lost in the work and their own thoughts. Washing down the wallpaper had seemed like the better part of the deal, but every time Ron sponged down a section of the wall higher than his own head, filthy luke-warm water trickled down his arms and soaked into his t-shirt until he felt as though he were wearing a wet dishrag. It was remarkably unpleasant work. Hermione, who had initially been happy to swap jobs, was finding the floor scrubbing just as unpleasant. You had to use both hands to keep a firm grip on the big wire scrubbing brush, and scrub as hard as you could to remove the decades of dirt ingrained there. Her hair, which was even more frizzy and unruly than usual with dirt and sweat, kept falling into her face, so she had to stop every few seconds and blow it out of her eyes. Not to mention that being crouched in the same position for so long was agonising for both her back and her knees.

"I can't quite believe…" she puffed, scrubbing hard at a particularly stubborn mark on the floor, "That I deliberately chose to come here and do this!"

"At least you had a choice," Ron retorted, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "You could have stayed at home all summer, put your feet up." He hesitated, then added, in what he obviously assumed was a light, couldn't-care-less tone of voice, "Or you could be in Bulgaria, sunning yourself on the beach."

Hermione allowed herself a small smile but did not look up from her scrubbing. Ron's ability to turn almost any conversation around to the subject of Viktor Krum was nothing if not impressive.

"Do they have beaches in Bulgaria?" he persisted.

"Yes, I think so," she said lightly, determined not to rise to the bait.

"Oh," said Ron.

She waited, knowing he was desperate to ask about Krum, but not wanting to make it easy for him. Finally, when it became apparent he wasn't going to say anything, she gave in with a sigh and told him, "Viktor lives in the mountains."

"His swimming pool, then. I bet he's got a swimming pool. He's the type," he added, with grim satisfaction, as though the owning of a swimming pool was a sure sign of deficiency of character.

Hermione said nothing.

"Has he got a swimming pool?"

"I've absolutely no idea. Does it matter?"

Ron huffed and turned back to the wall, muttering something under his breath that sounded rather like "cock".

She stared at the back of his head for a few moments, annoyed. Sometimes he could be so sulky and immature, she wondered why she even liked him.

"Viktor," she told him, returning to scrubbing the floor with much fury, "Is a very nice boy, actually. Nice people sometimes have money too, you know, it's not just the Malfoys of this world. You can't go around not liking someone just because he's got a swimming pool."

She paused, leaving a space for him to protest that wasn't the reason he didn't like Viktor, but he didn't say anything, and she carried on, now even more furious.

"I mean, Harry's got money, and my parents are reasonably well-off, and you don't dislike us, do you? It's just reverse snobbery, Ron, it's no better than Malfoy looking down on you because your family are - well, not rich. Don't you think so, Ron?"

No answer.

She raised her head to see that Ron had stopped working and was just standing there looking at her with a glazed expression on his face, clutching the sponge so tightly that a small puddle of dirty water was forming at his feet.

"Ron?" she repeated, suddenly afraid that she might have really offended him.

"Mm," said Ron, patently not even listening, "Yeah."

She followed the line of his gaze downwards and realised with horror that from that angle he must be able to see right down her top. Flustered and shocked, she sat hurriedly back on her haunches, her heart pounding and her face burning with humiliation.

"Ron!"

He gave a guilty start and dragged his eyes back up to her face again. "Sorry, what? Did you say something?"

"Are you going to just stand there looking gormless all day, or are you actually going to do some work for a change?"

He gaped at her, not sure if she was being serious. Where had all this come from?

"I mean, for heaven's sake, you heard your mum, if we don't get this finished this morning, we'll be back doing it again this afternoon! I don't know about you, but I don't want to spend another afternoon on my hands and knees scrubbing floors!"

"Alright!" he retorted, angrily, turning back to the wall and starting to sponge it roughly, "I'm doing it, aren't I? Jesus, I get enough nagging from my mum, I don't need you on my case as well…"

"I am not nagging you!" Hermione shrieked back, her whole face now crimson with fury, "I just don't think it's fair that the rest of us have to do twice as much work because you're too lazy to do it properly! And you didn't even start until an hour after everyone else did because you were having a lie-in! Again!"

"I'm on holiday!" Ron bellowed back, furiously, "Anyway, who do you think spent four whole days last week scrubbing the bloody kitchen while you were at home with Mummy and Daddy reading books in your lovely big garden in the sunshine?"

"Just because you did a couple of hours of work last week, doesn't give you an excuse to skive off for the rest of the holidays! Fred and George and Ginny all helped you clean the kitchen last week and I don't see them taking about three hours just to scrub one wall!"

"Yeah? Well... fine, if that's what you think! I tell you what, if I'm so crap at it, why don't you bloody do it? I'm sure you'll do a much better job!"

And he hurled the sponge to the floor and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him with such force that the walls seemed to shake.

That afternoon, after a rather tense lunch where the only words exchanged between them were a stiff, "Could you pass the salad bowl, please, Ronald?" from Hermione, and a sarcastic, "Are you sure I won't drop it?" from Ron, Mrs. Weasley decided to split them up. Initially Ginny and Hermione were supposed to be washing curtains in the big kitchen sink, and the boys were supposed to be dusting the rooms on the top floor, but Ginny kicked up such a big fuss about being made to do "women's work" that Molly relented and let them swap jobs. Ron was, to say the least, not very happy about this. Since the twins were now of age and legally allowed to use magic at home, they finished their share of the cleaning in about ten seconds flat and promptly disappeared off to their room, leaving him to do the rest of it by hand. He spent the next two hours up to his elbows in scalding, dirty water, working through a seemingly endless pile of filthy curtains that hadn't been washed in over a decade, and probably had spiders living in them, too.

Filthy, wet through, and thoroughly pissed off, he finally decided enough was enough and went in search of the others, determined to complain bitterly about his bad lot. Muttering under his breath and feeling very hard done by, he stomped up the stairs to the top floor, where he found Hermione, with her back to him, halfway up a ladder. She was balanced rather precariously on one foot, stretching out as far as she could in a fruitless attempt to reach the ceiling with her duster.

Ron hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he could make a quick escape before she turned around and realised he was there, but it was too late, she'd heard him.

"Ginny? Is that you? Can you hold the ladder for me? I can't quite reach."

He looked quickly left and right along the corridor, but Ginny was nowhere in sight.

"Ginny?"

"Er… it's not Ginny, it's Ron. I can get her, if you want."

"Oh. Well, that's okay. Would you mind holding the ladder for a few minutes? This house has very high ceilings."

"Um…"

"Or would you rather I fell off and broke my leg?" she snapped, firing up.

"No, of course not, it's just -"

"Just what? I'm asking you to hold a ladder, Ron, it's not rocket science!"

Are you sure you trust me enough to be able to hold a ladder without fucking it up? he thought, petulantly, but didn't say it out loud.

"Well…" he began, not wanting to give in without some sort of a fight, "You're cleaning the spider webs, aren't you? What if there are dead ones up there?"

"I thought you didn't mind the dead ones. You said it was only the live ones you were scared of because you don't like the way they move."

"I'm not scared of them!" Ron retorted hotly, "And even if the dead ones aren't as bad, it still doesn't mean I want you dropping any on my head!"

"Well, I'll just have to be extra careful then, won't I?"

"Fine," he sighed, realising he wasn't going to be able to get out of this. "But you get a spider anywhere near me, and you can finish the rest of the room on your own. I mean it."

So then, of course, his face was about level with her arse. There wasn't anywhere else he could look, so he simply screwed his eyes tightly shut, gripped the ladder as hard as he could, and tried to make his mind go blank until it was all over.

Hermione wanted to die with embarrassment. She hadn't thought this through at all. And now she was stuck here in this ridiculous position, and he was so close behind her she could almost feel him. She could see his hands gripping either side of the ladder down by her knees and knew that her bottom must be practically at eye level. She was so flustered she couldn't speak. Ron was remarkably quiet back there too. She suspected he was still angry with her from that morning. She'd overreacted, she saw that now. Well, she'd known it even while she was still shouting at him, but somehow hadn't been able to stop herself, caught up in her own confused emotions. She was self-aware enough to know that Ron's inability to get out of bed before midday wasn't really the issue here. He could stay in bed all day if he wanted to, what did she care? It was the summer holidays! And besides, the twins weren't much better, always disappearing off to work on their "secret project" in their room.

She gave an inward sigh. It was spending all this time so close to him that was making her so darn confused all the time. And then, this morning… She wasn't sure how she should feel about that. It was good that he had noticed her, wasn't it? Hadn't she been waiting for him to notice her for months? He definitely knew she was a girl now. But at the same time, to catch him staring at her so openly like that… well, it was confusing, that was all. It made her feel angry and excited and embarrassed and ashamed and a lot of other things she didn't even have a name for yet.

"How's the curtain washing going?" she asked, desperately hoping conversation would make the time pass quicker and the whole situation seem rather more normal.

Ron made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

"I hope the twins are behaving themselves."

"Mm."

"Have you seen Ginny? She was here a minute ago."

Ron shook his head, then realised she couldn't see him, and muttered, "Nope."

"Honestly," she went on, with a nervous laugh, "I don't think anyone's dusted this room in well over ten years. I've never seen so many cobwebs! I mean, just look at the state of this duster!"

"Yeah," he mumbled, opening his eyes to look, seeing her bottom at close view, and immediately screwing them shut again in horror, "Disgusting."

There was a long silence.

"You're very quiet," she observed.

"Am I?" he said, faintly.

Hermione frowned. He was obviously still annoyed with her from earlier. She felt she should apologise for shouting at him, but doing so would mean explaining the real reason she had been so upset, and that was not a conversation she wanted to have any time soon.

The way you were looking at me, it made me feel -

The thing is, Ron, I -

Why can't you just admit -

No. She would just pretend that nothing had happened, and with any luck he would do the same. That was the way they usually got over their arguments, after all.

"It's fine," Ron croaked, realising she might think he was sulking, "It's just -"

"Oh, sorry!" she exclaimed, "The spiders!" She started laughing, mostly with relief. "You can close your eyes if it helps!"

"Thanks," said Ron, dryly. Thank Merlin for his arachnophobia. Let her think that was the reason he'd lost the ability to form complete sentences, not because the sight of her arse at such close quarters was doing things to him that made him very glad she was facing the other way.

He could feel movement above him and her weight shift on the ladder, and the urge to open his eyes and look became almost overwhelming.

Don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes, don't open -

Someone cleared their throat quietly behind him, and Ron spun around to see Fred standing in the doorway, his eyes dancing with laughter.

"Enjoying the view there, Ronniekins?" he mouthed.

Ron let go of the ladder to make a rude gesture at his brother, and it gave a dangerous wobble.

"Ron!" snapped Hermione, "Hold still!"

"Yes, Ron," said Fred, trying and failing to keep a straight face, "Do try and concentrate on the job in hand."

He went on his way, still laughing, and Ron turned back to the ladder, gripping it hard, his face burning with fury and humiliation.

"Was that Fred?" asked Hermione.

"Uh-huh."

"What did he want?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Just to take the piss as usual."

"You shouldn't let him get to you, you know," she scolded.

Ron bit back a sarcastic retort. Easy for her to say. He closed his eyes again and tried to distract himself from the vision in front of him by listing last season's Cannons matches, in order of play.

Cannons vs. Montrose Magpies, home match. Debut appearance of new Cannons signing Rory Cameron, who scored eight of the Cannons goals, thus giving them their first win of the new season by the narrow margin of only ten points, and installing in the fans an optimism about the season ahead which turned out to be severely misplaced.

Cannons vs. Puddlemere United, away match. After a poor previous season which saw them finish bottom of the League, Puddlemere started this match with an entirely new line-up. They were ahead for most of the match, then the Cannons pulled in front for all of two minutes before Puddlemere's new Seeker caught the Snitch, leading to the first of what turned out to be a ten match run of defeats for the Cannons.

Cannons vs. Tutshill Tornados, home -

Movement above him made his eyes snap open again. Hermione was now stretching out her body as far as she could to reach the corner of the ceiling, and her t-shirt had ridden up a little at the back, revealing a couple of inches of bare skin.

The sight made his head swim, and he gripped the ladder still harder for support.

He was so close that his breath stirred the fine little hairs in the soft hollow at the base of her back. So close he could just lean up a little way and press his mouth to her skin and - he ran his tongue along his suddenly very dry lips - oh God, taste her...

He swallowed hard a couple of times and looked away again, down at his shoes, feeling as though if he wasn't holding the ladder, he might actually faint.

Cannons vs. Tornados, home match. Fetteridge took a Bludger to the head five minutes in and the Tornados played the rest of the match with only six men, still won 340 - 80.

Cannons vs. Falmouth Falcons, away match. Local derby so a bit of crowd violence delayed the start of the match by half an hour, Perkins got sent off for a blatant foul on Hegarty right in front of the referee, final score Cannons 40, Falcons -

Fuck.

It was no good. How could he be expected to concentrate on anything with that in his face?

"Hermione," he rasped, "Have you nearly finished or what?"

"Why?" she asked, sarcastically, "Holding the ladder too strenuous for you? I'll swap, if you like. You've got longer arms than me, anyway."

"Fine," he snapped back, "Get down and I'll bloody do it. I'm doing everybody else's sodding work already, so I might as well."

"I've nearly finished now, anyway. Hold still! My God, I've never know anyone who fidgets as much as you do!"

She gingerly took a step backwards, and he immediately let go of the ladder and sprinted for the door.

"Where are you going?" she called after him, annoyed. "You could at least wait until I'm off the ladder!"

"Need the loo!" he shouted over his shoulder. Actually, what he really needed was a very long, very cold shower - about two days long should do it - but that would have to wait.

When he emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, Hermione was hovering in the corridor apparently waiting for him.

"Were you waiting outside?" he demanded, a little too aggressively.

"No," she retorted, "I've just put the ladder away and now I want to wash my hands. Is that okay with you?"

She pushed past him irritably.

Ron hovered uncertainly in the doorway while she washed her hands in the sink.

She glanced at him and frowned. "You're very dirty."

"What?" he croaked.

"Well, look at you! Honestly, you'd think you'd been bathing in soot, not trying to clean it up. You're absolutely filthy!"

Oh, you have no idea.

"Ron!"

"What?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah!" protested Ron, indignantly, 'Course I am!"

Hermione shook her head. "I think I'll go and have a bath. What time's dinner, do you know?"

Ron shrugged. "About seven, I think. Dunno."

"Does your mum have any spare towels, do you know? Mine's still drying from this morning."

Ron stared back at her in slack-jawed blankness. All the synapses in his brain were suddenly firing at once.

Towels. Hermione. Bath. Wet. Naked. Hermione. Damp towel. Naked Hermione. Wet, soapy tits. Oh, fuck!

"Ron!" she snapped, and he blinked. "Towels!"

"What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. Linen cupboard on the landing next to the bathroom."

She shook her head in exasperation. "Honestly, Ronald. Sometimes I wonder what planet you're on."

She walked away down the corridor and Ron watched her go, with a new-found appreciation for the back view.

"Planet thinking about tits," he muttered ironically, then turned and hurried off to his room as fast as he could.

An hour later he was sitting at the dinner table with the others when Hermione arrived, her hair still slightly damp from her bath. He'd had a bath right after her - Christ knows he needed one, she was right, he was absolutely filthy - and he couldn't help thinking how she'd been sitting in it just minutes before, all wet and naked and wet and...

She was talking to Ginny and Tonks across the table and they were all laughing about something. His gaze automatically dropped downwards to her chest. Oh, God. There was a definite... wobble. Merlin, the way they moved! They were like - like - his mind had gone blank again. There was just her, and he couldn't think of the – the – the - words! Just Hermione. Tits. Hermione. Tits. Hermione. Couldn't - what was - shit!

He looked away quickly, feeling as though his entire face was on fire, and instantly realised that he wouldn't be able to get up from the table for at least the next few minutes. Across the table he heard her laugh again and looked up. Her mouth was open and her head thrown back in laughter. He wondered what her lips would feel like around his -

"Would you like any more potatoes, dear?"

"No, thanks," he muttered, hurriedly shoving the last forkful of chicken pie in his mouth.

"There's trifle for pudding," his mother beamed, patting his head fondly.

He forced a smile. "Great!"

Jesus. This was hideous. What the hell was he going to do when Harry got here and he had to share a bedroom with somebody else again? He'd practically have to lock himself in the bathroom all day at this rate. And even that didn't guarantee privacy now his brothers could Apparate anywhere they wanted. On the first day of the holidays, he'd nearly had a heart attack when Fred (or possibly George, he hadn't seen their face) had Apparated into the bathroom while Ron was in the shower, shouted, "Stop doing that, you filthy boy!" (He wasn't even doing anything!) and then DisApparated back out into the hall, laughing fit to burst. Yeah, that had been hilarious all right. It was things like that that made him sometimes wish he was an only child. Worse, instead of telling them off properly, his mum had just laughed and told him he was overreacting. She wouldn't think it was so funny if it was Ginny they'd done it to. Or Hermione. Oh, great. And now he was thinking about Hermione in the bath again.

He glanced across at her again, just as she turned her head, saw him looking at her, and smiled at him. His insides wriggled, and he gave her a sickly smile back, then looked away quickly, his heart thumping in his chest. God, he was disgusting. She was just giving him a friendly smile, and the whole time he was just picturing what she'd look like naked. Well, not entirely naked. Just topless. The rest of it… her… was still a little too far for him to imagine, or even want to imagine. Every time his thoughts wandered in that direction it made him feel all hot and dizzy and weird, and slightly like he might throw up, a bit like that time he fell asleep in Granddad Weasley's back garden and got sunstroke.

God, this morning! She'd been on her hands and knees in front of him, scrubbing away, and he'd had a glorious view right down her top. There had been... well, bouncing... For about ten seconds he'd practically stopped breathing and just stared, open-mouthed and probably dribbling. If she hadn't started having a go at him about slacking off, he might have been caught out. He was going to have to be more careful from now on, try not to be so blatant about it. Yeah, easy enough to say. Much harder to not look when she was swanning around the bloody house all the time climbing ladders and scrubbing floors and bending over things and talking about damp towels and being just bloody well there, making him think bad thoughts, making things stir that shouldn't, especially when his mum was in the room.

Oh, sod it, maybe he should just ask her. Maybe she wouldn't even mind that much.

"Oh, come on, Hermione, I only want to see your tits!"

Yeah, she wouldn't mind that, would she? It was a perfectly reasonable request, wasn't it?

"Or if you don't want to show them to me, how about you just let me cop a quick feel?"

He choked on a laugh. Yeah, that would go down really well. She'd smack him into the middle of next week if she could see what was going on in his head. That punch she'd given Draco Malfoy would look like a light slap. Worse, she'd more than likely never speak to him again. The smile died on his face. Was it normal to be thinking about your best friend's tits all the time? He could hardly ask Harry. No, scratch that, he didn't want to ask Harry. Because if it turned out Harry had been thinking about her tits as well, Ron was going to have to punch him, and that wasn't going to be pretty. Not to mention rather hard to explain. No, it definitely wasn't normal. There must be something wrong with him.

Sometimes when she was near he would get an irresistible urge to just reach out and touch. Something about the shape of tits (and even the word made his entire face heat up) just seemed to invite you to cup your hand over them, like they'd been designed for exactly that purpose. It was like an itch, almost. Of course, his chances of ever getting to touch or even see Hermione's tits - or anyone else's, let's face it - were approximately nil, so he was forced to keep his hands busy in other ways. He wondered what they would feel like. Seamus had tried to explain, to Ron and Neville's open-mouthed awe, but his rambling "Well, they're really soft... like the softest thing you can possibly imagine… but kind of firm as well… surprisingly heavy, actually… well, not always heavy… not if they're small ones, obviously…" had not been in any way helpful. It was clearly something you needed to experience for yourself. And anyway, after a barrage of questions it transpired that Seamus had actually only managed to cop a feel over the girl's jumper after two ciders, around the back of the church youth club disco, so even he couldn't enlighten his awestruck friends on what breasts really felt like. Ron and Neville had exchanged disappointed glances and trudged off to their lessons, still none the wiser.

Still, it wasn't his fault Hermione's arrival was making him so hot and bothered. For the past week the only women in the house had been his mother and sister (which would be sick, obviously), McGonagall (just plain wrong on several levels), and Tonks, who was at least nearer to his own age and was pretty well stacked in the chest department. But her visits were fleeting, and she often wore loose robes, which didn't exactly show off her chest to the best advantage. But now Hermione was here, wearing a thin summer t-shirt which he could see the outline of her bra through, and her tits were just… there, practically inviting him to look at them. He was having to mentally slap himself a lot lately. He kept catching himself staring at them, fascinated, unable to drag his gaze away from the wonderful sight, like they were the Pyramids at bloody sunset or something. She wasn't as, uh, well-developed as Tonks, but tits were tits, and Hermione's had the advantage of having the rest of her attached to them. And that was another problem entirely.

He'd been denying it all year, hoping that maybe it was just because she was the nearest girl to him, and eventually he'd get over it and stop thinking about his best friend's boobs. But six months on and he was starting to realise that maybe there was another reason he felt such a deep and irrational hatred for Viktor Krum, not just because he was Harry's rival in the Tri-Wizard competition. That actually he didn't give a flying toss about Krum being Harry's rival, but the thought of him with his massive hairy hand on Hermione's perfectly-formed arse made Ron want to break something. Like Krum's face. And both his legs. And every other bone in his body. That maybe - oh, who was he kidding, there was no maybe about it - he would like to be more than just friends with her, even if the chances of someone like her being interested in someone like him seemed, to say the least, slim. Especially when she could get a Viktor Krum instead.

But then, he suddenly thought, a thrill of possibility coursing through him, Krum wasn't around anymore, was he? He was hundreds of miles away, and being on the Bulgarian Quidditch team was bound to keep him busy. Too busy to keep popping over to England every five minutes. And it didn't look as though Hermione was going to Bulgaria, so maybe… maybe there was a chance, after all?

"Yeah, right," he thought, bitterly. "In your dreams, Weasley. She'd only be interested in you if you were built like a broom shed, had arms like tree trunks and a stupid foreign accent, and were the fastest person in the world on a broom."

Well, he couldn't do anything about the accent, or being long and skinny rather than all muscles, like Krum, but he could play Quidditch. He wasn't bad either. Not great, but not terrible. Maybe if she got to see him play…

The germ of an idea started to form in his head. Oliver Wood had left at the end of last year, so Gryffindor would need a new Keeper. Ron could be a Keeper. He'd Kept for Fred and George for years, after all. Okay, it wasn't exactly the position on the team that got all the glory, unlike Seeker, but what else could he do? What else was he good at? Nothing. Well, chess, but a talent for board games was hardly likely to attract a girl's attention. Maybe if he could get on the House team, she might finally start to look at him as something more than just her idiot best friend.

No, it was a stupid idea. There were bound to be loads of people who were better than him. And anyway, he didn't have a broom. They were hardly likely to let someone on the team who didn't even have their own broom, were they? Imagine having to fly on one of the school brooms! He gave an involuntary shudder. Those things could barely fly in a straight line. If you managed to get above about ten miles an hour, you were doing well. Jesus, he might as well give Malfoy the rope to hang him with.

If only his birthday was in the summer, like Harry's! Not that it would make any difference, of course. He could save up for his next ten birthdays and he still wouldn't be able to afford to buy himself a decent broom. Brooms were expensive. Good brooms were really expensive. Harry could probably buy a hundred new brooms and not even notice, he thought, bitterly. He remembered Malfoy's sarcastic little dig when he'd seen Harry's brand new top-of-the-range Firebolt: "You couldn't even afford the handle, Weasley. Don't you and your brothers have to save up, twig by twig?" Wanker. That would be another reason to get on the team, the chance to beat Malfoy. Cocky little git, thought he was God's gift to Quidditch just because his Daddy could afford to buy him a place on the team. Yeah, that would definitely make it all worthwhile, the look on Malfoy's annoying little face when Ron had beaten him.

But with no broom and no hope of getting one, what was the point in even trying? He glanced across at her and gloom descended upon him once more. She was never going to fancy him. It was ridiculous to even hope. He'd just be wasting his time.

"Trifle?"

"Wha - oh, yeah, please. Thanks, Mum."

Maybe he could borrow one of the school brooms, just to get some practice in, when they were back at school. He wouldn't need to tell anyone he was trying out for the team. Fred and George would only take the piss out of him anyway. And then, in the unlikely event he actually did make Keeper, he could write to his parents and beg them for a new one. It could be his Christmas and birthday presents combined. Yeah, for the rest of my life, he thought, bitterly. What he needed was a summer job, so he could earn some money of his own and not have to rely on his parents all the time. Well, there was no chance of that this year, with everyone locked up at Grimmauld Place. Maybe he could try out for Keeper in sixth year instead. Jesus, a whole year! He couldn't wait a year. Hermione might have met someone else by then.

A jolt went through him. Was he just doing this to impress Hermione? No, of course not. No, he was doing it because he wanted to, that was all. Because it would be nice to actually be good at something for a change, instead of just basically mediocre at everything. Yeah, that'd be his epitaph, all right. Ron Weasley: basically mediocre. Fuck. There was no way this was going to happen. No chance to practice over the summer, no broom of his own, no way of getting the money to buy one, and not a hope in hell of making the team.

Maybe he could borrow a ball from somewhere? There must be one somewhere in this house; two boys had once lived in it, after all. He would ask Sirius tomorrow. He didn't have to tell him why he wanted it. And Sirius, more than anyone, would understand what it was like to be shut up in this house for a summer, fifteen and restless and bored out of your skull, when you'd rather be outside in the sunshine. A fortnight in this house already felt like months. Harry might complain about being forced to spend the summer with the Dursleys but at least he could go outside and breathe fresh air and feel the sun on his face. September couldn't come soon enough as far as Ron was concerned. He couldn't get wait to get out there on a broom again and have a good fly, feel the wind in his hair. Even if it had to be one of the crappy school brooms, and even if Malfoy took the piss out of him forever.

Yes, he decided, he would do it. He would try for the team. He wouldn't say anything, though, not even to Harry. He didn't want anyone knowing about his plan just yet. Better they didn't expect anything, then, when he didn't get on the team, it wouldn't be such a big deal. To them, anyway. The more he thought about it the more he realised how much he wanted it, with an almost desperate longing. Oh, who was he kidding? Of course he was doing this to impress Hermione. Jesus, it wasn't like he was ever going to impress her with his top marks in Potions. This was his one chance to impress her, and if he didn't make it, if he wasn't good enough, then he wasn't good enough for her, either. If he didn't make the team… well, he would just give up, that was all. Go back to staring at her from the sidelines, where he obviously belonged. Talking of which…

He watched her across the table, laughing at something with his sister. She had a nice laugh, he thought. His gaze drifted inevitably downwards. She had nice lots of things. Damn. Look away, for God's sake, what's the matter with you? One of these days she'll catch you looking, and then what will happen? Everything will be ruined forever, and it will all be your fault. Just eat your bloody trifle and don't look up. Ever again.

It had been a long and tiring day and everyone was in bed by ten. Hermione lay there listening to the gentle sound of Ginny's breathing, unable to stop her mind from wandering upstairs to Ron's room above theirs. She wondered if he was still awake. Every so often she heard the creak of a floorboard overhead and assumed he must be still up and about. Making a decision, she threw back the covers, swung her legs off the bed, and tiptoed carefully across the room, slipping her feet carefully into her fluffy slippers and pulling on her dressing gown, before slipping silently from the room. She crept upstairs, trying not to step on any creaking stairs as she did so.

There was a narrow strip of light showing under Ron's door.

She rapped lightly on the door. "Ron?" she whispered loudly, "Are you awake?"

"Don't come in!" a panicky voice shouted.

"I wasn't going to. Are you decent?"

No answer.

"Ron?"

"Hang on!"

"OK."

After what seemed like ages, the door was finally wrenched open and Ron stood there in an old navy blue t-shirt and maroon checked pyjama trousers, looking rather flushed.

"What do you want?" he asked, roughly.

"Are you busy?"

"Nope," he said, shortly. "What do you want?"

"Can I come in? I couldn't sleep."

He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and held the door open for her.

She wasn't sure where she should sit. On Harry's bed was probably the obvious place, but her eyes were inextricably drawn back to Ron's. His bedclothes were messed up and the quilt thrown back where he had obviously got out of bed to answer the door. For a brief moment she imagined herself walking over there, slipping off her dressing gown and getting between the covers. The sheets would probably still be warm from his body. Oh, God.

The sound of him drawing the bolt across startled her out of her reverie.

"Sorry," he muttered, seeing her glance nervously at the locked door, "I don't want Kreacher to come in, that's all."

"Oh. Of course."

They both stood there uncertainly, waiting to see where the other one sat before sitting down themselves, and exchanged small, tight smiles.

He started gnawing tensely at his fingernails and Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye, fascinated. His fingers were long and slender and she wondered what his hands would feel like on her skin.

"So what was that thumping sound?" she asked, hurriedly.

Ron coloured. "Wh-what thumping sound?" he stammered.

"About half an hour ago. I heard it through the ceiling. I wondered what you were doing."

"Oh, that!" he exclaimed, incredibly relieved, "I was playing catch with an apple." He picked up the now very bruised apple from the bedside table and showed it to her. "See?"

"You were playing catch with an apple?" she repeated, frowning, as though he'd said he was playing leapfrog with a giant turtle or something equally as ridiculous.

Ron shrugged. "I was bored," he told her, not really wanting to go into the whole practicing-to-get-on-the-Quidditch-team thing just yet, "And I couldn't sleep, so…"

"Okaaay," she said, still not sounding convinced.

"I imagine the thumping would have been me dropping it," he added, dryly. Yeah, that boded well for his future career as Keeper, didn't it? He couldn't even catch a ball he'd thrown himself.

She nodded, and seemed to accept his explanation, for which he was mightily relieved. And it was true, he had been playing catch. For about five minutes, anyway. And then he'd got bored of that – well, there was a limit to how useful it was, unless the opposing team's Chasers could promise to only try and score from a position about three foot above his head - and spent the last twenty minutes playing with something else instead. Thank fuck he'd remembered to bolt the door!

She noticed his bare feet and frowned. "What happened to your slippers?"

"What? Oh. Grew out of them." He chuckled. "Again."

She didn't laugh, and the smile gradually slipped off Ron's face.

"I just haven't got around to asking for some new ones yet, that's all."

"Well, you should," she said, sternly. "The floorboards in this house are absolutely riven with nails. You ought to know that after spending half the morning cleaning them."

Ron bit back the retort that if she'd just come up here to nag him about his slippers, she could sod off. He didn't want to have another row with her, especially after this morning. He still wasn't entirely sure what he'd done to make her so angry. Maybe she was just fed up with him. Maybe she wished she'd stayed at home with her parents instead, or taken Krum up on his offer. After all, who wouldn't rather spend the holidays at Krum's mansion in the mountains, swimming pool or no swimming pool, than stuck here in this dump cleaning floors with Ron all summer? Not only did he not have a swimming pool (or a mansion, or a broom) but he didn't even have a pair of sodding slippers that fit him properly. Krum probably wore slippers made from dragon skin. Git.

"It's not my fault," he joked, weakly, "I'm a growing boy."

Hermione couldn't help herself. She gave him the swiftest glance up and down, then looked quickly away again, her face burning. She shouldn't have looked. Why did she look? It was bad enough that she was even here, alone with Ron in his bedroom in the middle of the night, especially after what had happened this morning. The memory made her feel hot and strange, just as it had every one of the myriad times she had replayed the incident over the last few hours. She should leave now before – well, she should just leave now.

Ron watched her, frowning. She seemed rather tense tonight. All his jokes were falling flat. Mind you, he was feeling rather tense himself, not to mention somewhat exposed in his thin pyjama trousers. Any unexpected… movement… and there was nowhere for him to hide. He quickly crossed the room and got back into bed, pulling his knees up to his chest and the bedclothes up to his chin.

Hermione hesitated, then went and perched awkwardly on the end of his bed, as far away from him as she could. There was a very long, very loaded silence. Both of them were intensely aware of the close proximity of the other, and that being on a bed together like this had a whole new implication that hadn't been there when, aged twelve, they'd first sat on Ron's dormitory bed at school and talked about their families.

"Do you think Harry's alright in Surrey?" she asked, eventually.

"I'm sure he is," said Ron, stiffly. So that was what was keeping her awake, was it? Bloody Harry. He wasn't even here and yet the subject of him still dominated their conversations. Ron could fall under a bus and she probably wouldn't even notice: "Oh, no, Harry, did you get some of Ron's blood on you?"

Hermione nodded, uncertainly. She was pretty sure Harry was fine, too, but it was just the first thing that had come into her head. It was a lot easier to talk about Harry than it was to talk about what she'd privately begun to refer to as "the Ron situation".

"Tonks is nice, isn't she?" she said, casting around for another neutral topic of conversation, "She's really funny, too."

"Mm," said Ron, trying not to think about what she was wearing under the dressing gown. Some sort of little top and no bra, probably. No bra!

There was a short silence. She felt his eyes upon her, and pulled her dressing gown a little tighter around her body, suddenly very much aware of the single thin layer of nightwear she was wearing underneath.

"So..." began Ron, trying for an airy tone but not quite managing it, "How come you're not going to Bulgaria to visit Krum, then?"

She glanced up but couldn't quite see his expression in the dim light of the room.

"Well..." she began, choosing her words carefully, "I'm not sure I really know him well enough yet. Bulgaria is a long way away, after all."

Yet, thought Ron.

"Right," he said, sceptically. "So what did he say, when you told him you weren't going?"

"I don't know," she admitted, "He hasn't replied to my letter yet."

"Maybe he's sulking," said Ron, with rather too much satisfaction in his voice.

"More likely he's just sent a reply to my parents' house, since that's where he thinks I am."

"Oh," said Ron, sourly, "Yeah, I suppose that would make sense."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. She wanted to ask him, "Why don't you really like Viktor, Ron?"

"Ron -"

He glanced up expectantly, their eyes met, and she knew she would not ask. This was not the moment. He wasn't ready. More to the point, she wasn't ready, either. Her reaction this morning had proved that beyond all doubt.

What if he tried to kiss her? Or even - her skin tingled at the very thought - touch her? She wanted him to - sometimes with a longing so all-consuming it frightened her - but what if she freaked out or shouted at him again? She might scare him off for good. It would ruin everything. And then, what if she tried to kiss him and he backed away? The humiliation and disappointment would be more than she could stand.

But what if he didn't back away, and what if she didn't either? They were alone on Ron's bed in the middle of the night. A kiss might lead to anything.

I should go, she told herself, but still couldn't bring herself to move.

Besides, what if she was wrong? Their friendship was too important to risk, especially as they were shut up together in this house for the rest of the summer. If anything went wrong it would be unbearable. Anyway, Harry would be here soon. He'd be bound to notice if there was any awkwardness. It wasn't fair to expect him to cope with an arguing Ron and Hermione on top of everything else he'd been through. Yes, that was the only thing to do. She would just wait, that was all. It wasn't the right time yet. Maybe when they went back to school he would finally pluck up the courage and do something, instead of just making sarky little comments about Viktor all the time. All she had to do was get through the next few weeks and then -

"What?" repeated Ron, impatiently.

She glanced up at him, flustered. "What?"

He threw his arms up in the air in frustration. "What do you mean, 'What?' You said 'Ron' and then you didn't say anything else! What were you going to say?"

"Oh," she said, reddening, "Nothing."

"No, go on. What were you going to say?"

"I've forgotten," she mumbled, feeling as though her face were on fire.

"Alright," he said, throwing her a look as though he didn't believe her for a second. He continued to watch her, frowning.

"So, er, I don't suppose you'll be seeing him much next year, then? I mean, he's left school now, so he'll be busy with the Quidditch full time, won't he?"

"Mm. I expect so, yes."

"Maybe he'll invite you to come and watch him play," he persisted.

"I shouldn't think so. Bulgaria's rather a long way to go just to watch a Quidditch match."

"Yeah," nodded Ron, happily, "It is, isn't it?"

"Anyway," she went on, hiding her smile, "I'll be very busy myself this year."

Ron frowned. "Will you?"

"Yes, and so will you."

He continued to look blank.

She laughed. "It's OWL year, remember? I don't imagine any of us will have much free time with all that studying to do."

"Oh, yeah," said Ron, gloomily, "I'd forgotten about that. Great."

"You'll need to knuckle down and get some serious studying done yourself, you know."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah, thanks. You sound like my mum." He stifled a yawn. "Probably f-f-fail them all, anyway."

"Don't say things like that," she scolded, "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

He shook his head. "Yeah, maybe if I Confunded the Examiner…"

"Or maybe if you actually did your homework on time for once, and didn't leave it until five minutes before it's due in! Honestly, how you two ever pass anything is completely beyond -"

She caught his amused expression and stopped. "Oh, shut up!" she grinned.

"Seriously," asked Ron, teasingly, "Why do you even hang around with a couple of idiots like me and Harry, anyway? Couldn't you find some nice smart people to hang around with?"

"Well, maybe I don't want to hang around with smart people!" she protested, offended. For a suspended moment her words hung in the air, and then they both realised what she'd said at exactly the same time.

"No!" she shouted over Ron's laughter, "That wasn't what I meant! Stop laughing! Stop laughing!"

She lunged sideways with her hand raised as though to slap him, but then suddenly realised that if she followed this through, she would be practically on top of him and panicked, pulling her hand back and jumping hurriedly to her feet.

"I'm going to bed now!" she blurted, unable to look him in the eye lest he read her panic for what it really was, "I'm really very tired! Goodnight!"

She made a dash for the door but forgot that it was still bolted, so had to stand there wrestling with the heavy bolt for what seemed like the longest five seconds in the world.

"Goodnight," said Ron, slightly confused by her sudden change in mood. "Sleep well."

"Yes, you too," she gasped, finally managing to wrench the door open and almost running from the room.

"Chance would be a fine thing," Ron muttered wryly to himself, once she had gone. Within minutes, though, he was fast asleep, his dreams woven with images of himself playing Quidditch in an orchard whilst Hermione, wearing Bulgarian national team colours, pelted him with apples from the top of a giant ladder.

Hermione lay awake for a long time after she got back to her own room, feeling as though an electric current was running through her entire body. Her little trip upstairs had done nothing to help her chances of sleep. She replayed the evening over and over in her mind. What if she had said something, told him it wasn't Viktor she liked, confessed how she felt about him? What if she had kissed him? What if, when he had opened the door to her, she had lifted her top to show him what he obviously wanted to see?

She ran her foot slowly up the back of her leg, wondering what it would feel like to lie in bed with him, his long legs intertwined with hers, his hands exploring her body. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself knocking on his door, just as she had tonight, and him pressing her back against it – kisses, tongues, warm skin on warm skin, fingers exploring, touching, caressing...

Sliding her hand up inside her nightshirt, she spread her fingers wide across her breast, imagining it was Ron's own large hand touching her. She pushed the material up over her chest and let out an involuntary gasp at the sensation of cool night air on her skin.

"Ron…" she murmured, and then froze in horror. Had she said that out loud?

"Ginny?" she whispered tentatively into the darkness.

Silence.

She hastily pulled her top back down again, her skin on fire, the blood pounding between her legs, and her heart hammering in her chest.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God!

Author's Note:

Ahem. I told you this story was rated M for a reason!

Ah, you know the drill by now. Review, review, review!

PB x