A/N – Thanks for your reviews, they really move my furniture *grin* … A clarification: I didn't actually intend this to be a prequel to Aftermath, because I kinda had different plans for both H/G and R/HG this year, but I guess you never know. Let's just ride this out and see what happens. Thanks again. ~98n6~ Shez … PS – I know, I know. My 'break' didn't last long. Ideas get into my bones and have to come out – plus, my friend Meegs was SO ready for a R/HG fic that I couldn't help myself. Let's hear it for you, Meegs! This is totally dedicated to ya!! Rollin' all the way! *laughs wickedly* XXOO

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He sat through double Potions (torture … Snape was as vindictive as ever, and took points off Ron for trying to pass a note), and then double Herbology. Actually, it wouldn't have been so bad if Hermione or Harry were themselves, but Harry had sunk into one of his depressions after Lupin's appearance, and Hermione was angry and ignoring him.

Ron hated when she was angry with him – she wasn't like the twins, with snide, sharp comments. If she was really angry, she knew exactly how to irk him. She was just … silent. It was the worst possible thing she could do to him. If she'd snap and be sarcastic, he could handle it. If she'd shout at him, even if she cried, he'd be able to do something. But this – this was impossible to fight.

She knew it too. He knew she knew it. And she knew he knew she knew it. The only way to get around it was to apologise, and he didn't bloody want to. This was Malfoy they were talking about. The guy who'd insulted his family and supported the murderer of Harry's parents for five years. And now, paired up with Hermione … well, was it any wonder he couldn't stand him? 

By the end of the day, he couldn't handle it any longer.

He and Harry were sitting near the fire in the common room after dinner, playing Wizard's Chess, and he was so distracted that he lost his bishop in a ridiculous play. Harry's little pawn smashed it to pieces, and something in Ron's head snapped. He stood up.

"Right," he said. "Can't take it. I'll have to go and apologise."

"Just because you're losing," Harry said (more himself now).

"No," Ron retorted, although that had, in fact, contributed a little. "I hate it when she's like this. It's stupid. And it'll drag for weeks if I don't stop it now."

Harry shook his head. "So stop it. I don't know why you didn't just say sorry this morning."

"Well – you know," Ron said, floundering. "It's the principle of the thing."

"Right," Harry said dryly. "Go principle your way out of it, then, and get back here so I can finish you off."

Ron looked about, and spotted Ginny at a table by the window. "Oi! Sister!" he shouted, and she turned around.

"Yes, Prat?"

"Very funny. Come play Harry for me while I go see 'Mione."

Ginny stretched and wandered over. She leant over Harry's shoulder to see the board.

"What on earth have you been doing?" she asked Ron. "There's no hope." She looked down at Harry, who grinned up at her. "You might even win for once."

"I know," Harry said happily. "It's great."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Fine. Form your little alliances against me. I'm going."

"Off you go, then," said Gin plainly, coming around to take his seat.

And off he went.

~

It took him a while to find Hermione's new quarters. Actually, he probably wouldn't have found them at all if he hadn't grabbed Lavender on the way, and asked her. She'd giggled out rough directions, and he'd managed to follow them to the western side of the castle, and up a winding, shifting staircase to a floorboard-ed passageway.

There were a few tapestries on the walls, a window at its end, and two wooden doors, side by side. The first was slightly ajar, and – to his bemusement – he recognised the smell that was wafting out. It was Hermione's scent. Sort of flowery, not quite sweet. He couldn't define it exactly, but it was Hermione.

He approached the door and knocked lightly, feeling suddenly intrusive. It was so quiet up here. There was no response from inside, and, not really thinking about it, he pushed the door open.

Hermione was standing at the foot of her bed, examining an outfit she'd laid out on it.

That wasn't what he really noticed.

The thing was, she was wrapped in a towel, and only a towel, and her hair was lying wet against her bare neck, and her pale legs were exposed to the thigh, and it made his heart beat fast to see her like this. He'd never seen her like this. He'd never even allowed himself to think of her like this. But God, he couldn't stop looking – his eyes were travelling the length of her legs (when had they gotten so long?), and all he could smell was that flowery scent, and warm water from her shower.

He was only standing there a few moments before she must have felt something. She turned, and saw him. They stared at each other, and then she was tightening her grip on her towel.

"Ron! For Merlin's sake! What the hell are you doing?"

Suddenly he could move again, and was spinning about, back into the corridor, flushing bright red.

"Sorry! Sorry," he called back. "I'm sorry! I just came to apologise – and your door was open – fuck, sorry – I didn't know – I mean – I just came in. Sorry," he finished weakly. He shut the door behind him and put his head in his hands. It opened again, abruptly. Hermione was still in her towel.

"Don't swear."

He refused to look at her. "Sorry."

"Oh, stop being ridiculous," she said irritably. "It's not like I'm naked."

Don't think of Hermione naked, his inner voice ordered immediately.

"True," he mumbled.

"Did you have to barge in like that?"

"Sorry."

"What happened to knocking?"

"I did knock," he protested, turning to her automatically, and then, remembering, fixing his eyes on the wall instead.

"Knock louder next time, then. Hang on, let me get changed."

She ducked back in. He ran a hand through his hair. His heart was still hammering, and he took a few deep breaths. This was weird – he felt weird.

When he heard her footsteps returning, he stepped away from the door again. She opened it. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

"Come in," she said, and padded away.

He hesitated a few seconds, and then obeyed, letting the door close softly. He looked about the room. It was simple – white walls, white-covered bed – and there were books everywhere. Her school robes were tossed carelessly over the back of her desk-chair. Her bed was almost hidden by stacks of thick, leather-bound volumes.

"Wow," he said, trying to come back to his usual self. "Did you borrow all these from the library?"

She ducked out of a small side-room – the bathroom, he realised, when he saw the brush in her hand – and shrugged.

"Most of them. Some are mine."

"I thought it was ten books per student."

"They extended it for me."

"How far?"

"Far enough." She ran the brush through her hair, standing perhaps a metre from him. Maybe it was just his imagination, but she (behind her surface practicality) seemed a bit strange too. "Was there something you wanted?" she asked, after a brief pause.

"Er – yes," he said, shaking his head a little, as though to clear it. "Yeah. I wanted to – you know, apologise for this morning. I was being an idiot. Sorry."

"That's alright. I'm sorry I was angry today."

That was always how it went – once he apologised, she'd do the same. Girls.

"You know, you should give Malfoy a chance, Ron," she went on, shifting into her bossy voice. He hadn't heard that in a while – and, to his surprise, he realised he'd kind of missed it. "He's really not too bad. He's polite."

"Yeah. Well. Polite's not everything," he said, but when she looked at him, he carried on hastily: "I don't know, maybe you're right. It's just … it's a bit hard. To see him in that way. He still doesn't really talk to me."

"I know," Hermione acknowledged. She had an elastic band on her wrist, and used it now to pull her hair into a ponytail. "But it's not like you give him the opportunity, is it?"

"OK, OK," Ron said, trying to wrap this topic up. Again, he didn't want to talk about Malfoy. If he didn't talk about him, maybe he wouldn't think about him. His wandering gaze fell on her dresser. He walked over to it, breaking into a smile – she had a picture in a frame there of the three of them, taken at the beginning of sixth year.

"Jeez," he said softly. "I'd forgotten about this one."

She moved to stand beside him. "I only had it developed this summer. I'd forgotten about it too."

"Hagrid took it, didn't he? Before he left."

"I know."

"You think he's coming back?"

She sighed, and he glanced at her. Her eyes were on the floor.

"No. I don't think so," she said soberly, and he felt like he should do something – pat her shoulder? Hug her? They weren't 'hugging' friends, exactly. Only on special occasions. And sometimes she kissed his cheek.

When was the last time she'd done that?

He looked at the photograph again. Hermione was between he and Harry. Ron's hair kept blowing back in the wind, and she was flattening it with one hand, laughing. Harry was smiling, but his eyes were heavy and sad.

"You've never been in my bedroom before," Hermione said suddenly, and he jumped.

"What?"

"You've never been in my bedroom before," she repeated. "Because of the charm on the Gryffindor rooms, remember?"

"Yeah. You're right."

"What do you think?" she said, folding her arms across her chest.

What did he think? He wasn't exactly sure what she wanted him to say.

"It's – nice," was what he finally went with. She looked a bit disappointed, and he tried to think of something else. "It's very you," he finished eventually. It was true, too, and she smiled a little.

"Books and things, you mean?" she said wryly.

"No. It's just – well, if I had to picture your room, this is what I'd see, I guess," he said, flushing again.

She nodded, and unexpectedly he remembered her legs – how pale and long and smooth they were – and had to look away. He'd forgotten for a little while, about those moments when he came in, but now that he'd remembered, it was all he could see.

There was a sudden, sharp rapping on the door, and Ron started violently. Hermione smiled in a surprised kind of way.

"Jumpy, aren't we?" she said, and went to open it. 

"Yeah, well," he protested, glad to be on familiar ground again – sparring. "It's not every day you're standing in a girl's room for the first … time …"

He stopped. Malfoy was standing in the hall, wearing jeans and a green Slytherin jersey rolled up onto his forearms.

"Hi," he said.

"Hello," she returned. "I'm just coming now." She glanced meaningfully at Ron, and Malfoy looked beyond Hermione and saw him. His eyebrows went up, just a little.

"Weasley," he said, rather stiffly.

Ron couldn't say anything. He nodded once – jerked his head, more like – and then there was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"Malfoy and I have to do night patrol," Hermione said eventually.

"Right," managed Ron. He paused, and then spoke rather gruffly. "What, every night?"

"Yeah. It'll be a bit of a pain, but I suppose we'll get used to it," she went on, laughing (rather awkwardly) in Malfoy's direction. He smiled slightly. Ron wanted to hit him, and could feel his hand shaking. He clenched and unclenched it a few times.

"We'd best be off," Malfoy said then.

"I was just leaving," Ron said, and found himself sweeping past them into the corridor. "See you in the morning, 'Mione. Malfoy."

The last he managed through gritted teeth. He hoped Hermione appreciated the bloody effort. When he looked back at her from the stairs, she waved at him, and then went inside her room again – to get her wand, he supposed. Malfoy followed.

He didn't like that Malfoy followed. He didn't like that they were patrolling together. And he wished he could just get a grip, and not care so much.

He couldn't help it. He did care.

He went down the stairs feeling angry and helpless, and with an odd, tugging sense of loss too. Like she was moving away from him.

Him and Harry, that was. Moving away from him and Harry, and maybe not coming back.