She Likes Me for Me
By like a falling star
Hermione Granger was feeling particularly murderous that day.
And she was looking it, too.
So much so that her fellow Griffindors decided, very cleverly, for their own personal safety, to keep out of her way, at least for the time being.
So as she spat out the password ["Dungbomb beetles!"], crawled through the portrait hole ["stupid, miniscule thing!"] and stomped up to the fifth-year girls' dormitories, muttering incoherently under her breath, the Griffindors, though prided on their courage and bravery, shriveled back in fear and vowed never to cross Hermione-in-a-foul-mood.
The Griffindors, acting thoroughly unruffled, sat back and pretended to be absorbed in a game or Exploding Snap or Wizard's Chess or such, all the while really sneaking looks at the portrait hole, waiting for Ron Weasley, who would undoubtedly come storming through a moment later, freckled face as red and furious as Hermione's, with a resigned-looking Harry Potter in tow.
Or not.
At least, not today.
For some reason unbeknownst to man, Ron did not storm through angrily, and no bewildered Harry followed.
All was quiet.
The Common Room finally dared breath, but one question occupied their thoughts: who, if not Ron Weasley, made Hermione mad this time?
*
Hermione Granger was bloody furious.
The very thought of thinking that she was bloody furious made her even more bloody furious. Because she was a PREFECT! And prefects [as Percy had so pompously put it] should never sink so low as to SWEAR! Not even in their THOUGHTS! Especially if they frequently got annoyed with other prefects [only one other, actually] for swearing! And these other prefects [only one other, again] happened to be RED-HEADED as well! And BLOODY CUTE!
Which brought her back to the subject of swearing.
Hermione huffed.
Oh, she was angry, alright. If she didn't have more sense, she was liable to murder someone. That someone would be very dead by now. And then she'd be banished to Azkaban for committing murder, only she'd be very dead by then and it'd be too late.
Yes. The person whom Hermione was very angry at-no, scratch that-the person whom Hermione was incredibly, hoppingly mad at was, indeed, herself.
Stupid, stupid girl. She chided herself. Why'd you have to go and fall for Ron Weasley?
*
What was her problem? Hermione wondered, poking crossly at her food. She was a sensible, down-to-earth girl, someone who prided herself on making logical and well thought-through choices. So WHY on earth did her stupid, stupid heart pick Ron Weasley, of all people, to fall for?
Her careful, sensible brain certainly wouldn't have made a mistake like that. No, her brilliant brain would most certainly have realized that falling for Ronald Weasley was about the dumbest, most illogical thing in the world to do. Her brilliant brain certainly would have picked someone more, to be honest, worthy of her affections. Someone she could very safely like at first sight, date for the customary five years or so and go on to spend the rest of her life with, acquiring, in the process, 2.4 kids, a white picket fence, and a dog. Or a ferret. Or something. Someone like Harry Potter, for example. Her brain decided brightly. He was, first and foremost, the Boy-Who-Lived. He was nice and brave and humble, and a very good wizard indeed.
But, no. Of course not. Her brain hadn't the privilege to pick who she fell for. The honour went to her heart, who hadn't an ounce of sense. Not an ounce of sense at all. Ron, of all people. RONALD WEASLEY!
For Merlin's sake, her heart had no taste, Hermione thought. She and Ron fought like cats and dogs, and quarreled over absolutely nothing. She was a brainiac and he was. well, not stupid; he could get good grades if only he'd put in a dash of effort, but Ron definitely wasn't the studying type. Hermione was calm and rational as Ron was hot-tempered and impulsive. Ron spent his free time challenging innocent victims to Wizard's Chess, getting his eyebrows singed in the midst of playing Exploding Snap and terrorizing any guy who dared glance at Ginny, while Hermione, on the other hand, pursued more. intellectual interests such as reading, studying, reading, doing homework weeks in advance, reading, helping the house-elves and, well, [surprise, surprise!] reading.
They were, to put it simply, as different as Snape and Lockhart.
To get back to the story, Hermione was poking crossly at her food.
Ron eyed her warily. "What s'matter with you?"
"Nothing," she replied loftily.
"Don't lie, Hermione." Ron sounded strangely hurt. "You've been acting strange all week. I can tell when you're upset." His voice was gentle and understanding.
The fact that she'd noticed that his voice was unusually gentle made her all the more angry, for some reason. "Don't bother me, Ron."
Ron stared at her, and shook his head, feeling rather annoyed. "Well, excuse me for caring. A bundle of sunshine and smiles now, aren't you?"
There was no way in hell Hermione was going to let that one go. Harry looked nervously from one friend to another, predicting the beginning of another one of their infamous spats.
Instead, Hermione pushed her chair back with as much dignity as possible. "I'm full." She announced, avoiding their eyes. "I'm going back to the Griffindor Tower."
Ron looked up, surprised at her reaction. "What? But you've barely touched your food!"
"See you later," Without another word, Hermione stood up and left the room, leaving Ron and Harry to stare at her in bewildered silence.
*
Hermione buried her face in her pillow, willing herself not to cry. Ron was just not worth crying over, no matter how much he'd hurt her.
Why, why, why? Why'd she have to go and fall for that insufferable prat?
Crookshanks stalked over to Hermione's bed and curled at Hermione's feet.
It was bad enough that she found herself falling for him; there was no way on earth that Ron would like her back.
Though they were friends, they spent more time arguing than talking. No matter what they were doing, no matter where they were, Ron always managed to find fault with her.
'Still reading, Hermione? Trying to finish the whole library before Christmas, I expect?'
'Writing to Vicky? I thought you had more sense than that. Apparently not; it's obvious what he wants from you, and you're going to let him take it?'
'For Merlin's sake, stop acting like such a perfect, prissy goody-goody!'
Why was it that Ron had the uncanny ability to affect her so much with his words? He was the only one who could do that. Hermione sighed loudly and turned over onto her back-and gasped.
Ron Weasley was standing in the doorway, looking very awkward indeed. "Er- hi."
"Hi." Hermione replied, for lack of anything else to say. She could feel her cheeks heating up.
Ron's eyes flickered around the room nervously, and he held out a somewhat lumpy-looking aluminum package to her.
Hermione took it, her brown eyes questioning.
"It's a chicken sandwich." Ron told her. "You didn't have dinner, and it's my fault cos you were mad at me."
Hermione suddenly felt terrible. It wasn't his fault. Not in the least bit. "Ron, I-"
"No. Listen. Uh-I'm here to apologize." He had a determined look on his face.
"For what?"
Ron looked rather sheepish. "I don't know, actually. I figured since you were angry with me, I must have done something wrong. I'm sorry." He said, sounding more sincere than Hermione had ever heard.
"Oh, Ron." Hermione's voice softened. "It's nothing, really. I was having a bad day and I took it out on you. I'm really sorry."
Ron smiled at her. It wasn't his usual grin, but a slight, mild smile that told her he was happy with what just happened. "Forgiven."
Hermione returned the smile. "I'm glad."
"So, uh. you'd better eat it before it gets cold." Ron said. He stood around nervously for awhile, then reached over and gave her a quick, tight hug before releasing her and practically sprinting down the stairs to the Common Room.
Hermione blinked.
She had been wrong, all along. Ron Weasley was really the sweetest, nicest, most amazing guy ever.
She loved him just the way he was.
And nothing would ever change that.
*
By like a falling star
Hermione Granger was feeling particularly murderous that day.
And she was looking it, too.
So much so that her fellow Griffindors decided, very cleverly, for their own personal safety, to keep out of her way, at least for the time being.
So as she spat out the password ["Dungbomb beetles!"], crawled through the portrait hole ["stupid, miniscule thing!"] and stomped up to the fifth-year girls' dormitories, muttering incoherently under her breath, the Griffindors, though prided on their courage and bravery, shriveled back in fear and vowed never to cross Hermione-in-a-foul-mood.
The Griffindors, acting thoroughly unruffled, sat back and pretended to be absorbed in a game or Exploding Snap or Wizard's Chess or such, all the while really sneaking looks at the portrait hole, waiting for Ron Weasley, who would undoubtedly come storming through a moment later, freckled face as red and furious as Hermione's, with a resigned-looking Harry Potter in tow.
Or not.
At least, not today.
For some reason unbeknownst to man, Ron did not storm through angrily, and no bewildered Harry followed.
All was quiet.
The Common Room finally dared breath, but one question occupied their thoughts: who, if not Ron Weasley, made Hermione mad this time?
*
Hermione Granger was bloody furious.
The very thought of thinking that she was bloody furious made her even more bloody furious. Because she was a PREFECT! And prefects [as Percy had so pompously put it] should never sink so low as to SWEAR! Not even in their THOUGHTS! Especially if they frequently got annoyed with other prefects [only one other, actually] for swearing! And these other prefects [only one other, again] happened to be RED-HEADED as well! And BLOODY CUTE!
Which brought her back to the subject of swearing.
Hermione huffed.
Oh, she was angry, alright. If she didn't have more sense, she was liable to murder someone. That someone would be very dead by now. And then she'd be banished to Azkaban for committing murder, only she'd be very dead by then and it'd be too late.
Yes. The person whom Hermione was very angry at-no, scratch that-the person whom Hermione was incredibly, hoppingly mad at was, indeed, herself.
Stupid, stupid girl. She chided herself. Why'd you have to go and fall for Ron Weasley?
*
What was her problem? Hermione wondered, poking crossly at her food. She was a sensible, down-to-earth girl, someone who prided herself on making logical and well thought-through choices. So WHY on earth did her stupid, stupid heart pick Ron Weasley, of all people, to fall for?
Her careful, sensible brain certainly wouldn't have made a mistake like that. No, her brilliant brain would most certainly have realized that falling for Ronald Weasley was about the dumbest, most illogical thing in the world to do. Her brilliant brain certainly would have picked someone more, to be honest, worthy of her affections. Someone she could very safely like at first sight, date for the customary five years or so and go on to spend the rest of her life with, acquiring, in the process, 2.4 kids, a white picket fence, and a dog. Or a ferret. Or something. Someone like Harry Potter, for example. Her brain decided brightly. He was, first and foremost, the Boy-Who-Lived. He was nice and brave and humble, and a very good wizard indeed.
But, no. Of course not. Her brain hadn't the privilege to pick who she fell for. The honour went to her heart, who hadn't an ounce of sense. Not an ounce of sense at all. Ron, of all people. RONALD WEASLEY!
For Merlin's sake, her heart had no taste, Hermione thought. She and Ron fought like cats and dogs, and quarreled over absolutely nothing. She was a brainiac and he was. well, not stupid; he could get good grades if only he'd put in a dash of effort, but Ron definitely wasn't the studying type. Hermione was calm and rational as Ron was hot-tempered and impulsive. Ron spent his free time challenging innocent victims to Wizard's Chess, getting his eyebrows singed in the midst of playing Exploding Snap and terrorizing any guy who dared glance at Ginny, while Hermione, on the other hand, pursued more. intellectual interests such as reading, studying, reading, doing homework weeks in advance, reading, helping the house-elves and, well, [surprise, surprise!] reading.
They were, to put it simply, as different as Snape and Lockhart.
To get back to the story, Hermione was poking crossly at her food.
Ron eyed her warily. "What s'matter with you?"
"Nothing," she replied loftily.
"Don't lie, Hermione." Ron sounded strangely hurt. "You've been acting strange all week. I can tell when you're upset." His voice was gentle and understanding.
The fact that she'd noticed that his voice was unusually gentle made her all the more angry, for some reason. "Don't bother me, Ron."
Ron stared at her, and shook his head, feeling rather annoyed. "Well, excuse me for caring. A bundle of sunshine and smiles now, aren't you?"
There was no way in hell Hermione was going to let that one go. Harry looked nervously from one friend to another, predicting the beginning of another one of their infamous spats.
Instead, Hermione pushed her chair back with as much dignity as possible. "I'm full." She announced, avoiding their eyes. "I'm going back to the Griffindor Tower."
Ron looked up, surprised at her reaction. "What? But you've barely touched your food!"
"See you later," Without another word, Hermione stood up and left the room, leaving Ron and Harry to stare at her in bewildered silence.
*
Hermione buried her face in her pillow, willing herself not to cry. Ron was just not worth crying over, no matter how much he'd hurt her.
Why, why, why? Why'd she have to go and fall for that insufferable prat?
Crookshanks stalked over to Hermione's bed and curled at Hermione's feet.
It was bad enough that she found herself falling for him; there was no way on earth that Ron would like her back.
Though they were friends, they spent more time arguing than talking. No matter what they were doing, no matter where they were, Ron always managed to find fault with her.
'Still reading, Hermione? Trying to finish the whole library before Christmas, I expect?'
'Writing to Vicky? I thought you had more sense than that. Apparently not; it's obvious what he wants from you, and you're going to let him take it?'
'For Merlin's sake, stop acting like such a perfect, prissy goody-goody!'
Why was it that Ron had the uncanny ability to affect her so much with his words? He was the only one who could do that. Hermione sighed loudly and turned over onto her back-and gasped.
Ron Weasley was standing in the doorway, looking very awkward indeed. "Er- hi."
"Hi." Hermione replied, for lack of anything else to say. She could feel her cheeks heating up.
Ron's eyes flickered around the room nervously, and he held out a somewhat lumpy-looking aluminum package to her.
Hermione took it, her brown eyes questioning.
"It's a chicken sandwich." Ron told her. "You didn't have dinner, and it's my fault cos you were mad at me."
Hermione suddenly felt terrible. It wasn't his fault. Not in the least bit. "Ron, I-"
"No. Listen. Uh-I'm here to apologize." He had a determined look on his face.
"For what?"
Ron looked rather sheepish. "I don't know, actually. I figured since you were angry with me, I must have done something wrong. I'm sorry." He said, sounding more sincere than Hermione had ever heard.
"Oh, Ron." Hermione's voice softened. "It's nothing, really. I was having a bad day and I took it out on you. I'm really sorry."
Ron smiled at her. It wasn't his usual grin, but a slight, mild smile that told her he was happy with what just happened. "Forgiven."
Hermione returned the smile. "I'm glad."
"So, uh. you'd better eat it before it gets cold." Ron said. He stood around nervously for awhile, then reached over and gave her a quick, tight hug before releasing her and practically sprinting down the stairs to the Common Room.
Hermione blinked.
She had been wrong, all along. Ron Weasley was really the sweetest, nicest, most amazing guy ever.
She loved him just the way he was.
And nothing would ever change that.
*