–– Author's Note: This is the end, my friends, and I'm sure we all know that everything works out just fine. ^_^ Hopefully my next story – which I'm starting today! – will contain a vastly larger amount of angst and suspense and drama and all that good stuff that I'm being urged to write. And, shockingly, it won't be about Ron and Hermione. – Yes, a shameless plug. _ Anyway, thanks to everyone, again, who reviewed and supported me – I love you guys. =)




As was usual for the autumn and early winter – and, actually, most of any other season in Britain – it rained unrelentingly, with little care of what petty plans the female students of Gryffindor had planned for the Saturday morning and afternoon. And, due to this, it was up to the Boy Who Lived and his faithful friend, Ronald Weasley, to head daringly out and arrange a wonderful party in the common room – which, compared to defeating the Dark Lord on numerous occasions, was easily done, but nevertheless a heroic feat worthy of much praise and admiration when they returned with news of Professor McGonagall being busy with a Junior Dueling Club tournament and armfuls of sweets and butterbeer.

The carrying on – which started out quite mildly enough, considering Ginny and Parvati were sulking over their ruined plans – went on from late in the morning until late in the afternoon, when it began to wind down (before winding up again, after dinner) until the younger students, who were notorious for ruining good parties, were in bed.


"So, Ron," Ginny had settled onto the sofa next to him, grinning broadly first at her brother, then to Hermione (who was sitting in an overstuffed armchair close by).

"Huh?" he yawned, staring dazedly up at the ceiling – the lack of sleep had finally caught up with him and he was beginning to doze lightly despite the music from the Wizard's Wireless and the chatter of some fourth year students who had just returned from Hogsmeade to find the remnants of a party going on.

"I was just wondering . . . " she began, trailing off in the manner she usually did before coming out with something absolutely embarrassing. He could just hear it in her tone. " . . . when you and Hermione are going to finally come out with it."

This piqued Hermione's attention, as she had been reading a book, somehow, during the winding down commotion. "Out with what, Virginia?" she asked in a flaringly defiant manner, over top the giggles and snickers from onlookers.

Ron felt his cheeks burning that hated color of red, knowing too well that his ears were turning the same color. "We want to hear a confession of love!" Parvati burst in, settling upon the arm of the sofa near Ginny. "This is just driving us mad. You love him and he loves you, so if you don't stop hiding it, we're just going to have to hold you down, give you some real truth serum, and wait for a confession!" Ginny, of course, gave Parvati a sharp jab in the ribs at her cheek, but did not stop grinning.

This caught Ron off guard and, he noticed, it did the same for Hermione, as she flustered – as she typically did when groping for a lie – for some time before snapping, "I suppose your crystal ball told you this, Parvati? What rubbish!"

It was too late and just as bad as Ron had feared the night before. Almost on cue, the group of fourth year students burst into gleeful giggles and began whispering among themselves – no doubt about how Hermione had been secretly dating Viktor Krum years after their brief relationship and there was some sort a love triangle between him, her, and the aforementioned Bulgarian git. "Come off it, Ginny!" Ron raised his head from the back of the sofa, shooting her and Parvati a glare. "This is not some sort of thing like from those romance novels you read."

At having the fact that she read romance novels mentioned aloud to the crowded common room, Ginny went a deep shade of scarlet. "You can't deny it, Ron," she countered with a grin (attempting to seem unfazed by the announcement of her pastime), which made Ron wonder if he dared to challenge her about it – she could have very well had evidence that would contradict anything he claimed.

Hermione, however, was not about to go down without a fight, as she did not know Ginny quite so well as Ron did, and shot up from her chair with a sound of absolute annoyance. "Firstly, Virginia Weasley, it is no one's business if Ron and I have feelings for each other – " a glare was shot towards the group of fourth year students who began to giggle madly, " – which we don't! Secondly, if we did, we wouldn't announce it to the entire common room for what attention we could get from it. And, third, – "

But, Ginny interrupted the heated tirade, a grin still plastered upon her face. "You do love him!"

"I don't!"

Upon seeing how absolutely adamant about it Hermione was, Ron was forced from his seat upon the sofa, not even pausing to think before he asked, "You don't?" To, of course, a chorus of giggles.

Flustering, again, beneath the questioning, Hermione's face began to turn a shade as equally bright as his own. "Well ... um ... "

"Do you love her?" Parvati took the opportunity to interrupt, pleased with the fact that Hermione was tripping over her own words and denials, obviously hoping to do the same to Ron. It was insanity, really.

"What is this, anyway? Why should I – "

"Do you?"

"No!" Ron burst out, if only to counter Hermione's claims with an outrageous one of his own. Perhaps she would feel the same unbelievably painful stab to her heart that he had when she denied her feelings for him. Or, hopefully she did, because he felt even worse claiming something that was completely untrue.

If Hermione had felt something akin to pain, she expertly hid it as she finally recovered from Ron's question. "There! You see? We don't. We're just friends." And, at that, she reached out, took Ron's hand, and shook it firmly, which left him in a curious sort of daze.

"Enough of this," Harry finally entered the argument – much to Ron's surprise, as he never thought that Harry would be the slightest bit interested as to whether or not his two best friends were anything more than friends at all – and crossed the common room over to Ron. "I'll prove it that he loves her!" he shouted, getting a reply in the form of cheers, causing Ron's heart to shrink (as he had hoped Harry would put an end to the sudden insanity which had swept over the room), wrestling a hand within Ron's pocket to obtain the folded piece of parchment he had been writing on all night and early morning. "A poem, for Hermione, written by Ron, containing deep professions of his love for her!"

If there was one moment in his entire life when Ron wanted to crawl into the deepest, darkest hole in the world and await death, it was at that moment. His face, and ears, felt warm enough to burst and were undoubtedly such a deep shade of crimson they were clashing terribly with his hair. Although he tried his best to grab the parchment back, Hermione had already snatched it from Harry's hand and moved off a few feet to begin unfolding it.

"And, here!" Lavender announced, bounding down the stairs with a book in her hand, the title (101 Magical Ways to Ensure Love) flashing in the golden light of the common room, and skipping happily until she reached Parvati and Ginny.

Taking the book, Ginny flipped through the pages quickly, eventually finding an unwrinkled piece of parchment littered with Hermione's elegant handwriting. "A letter, in which Hermione confesses the depth of her love – and passion – for Ron!" Ginny announced to the audience of students in the common room, over top the shrieks of protest from the letter's author.

As one good turn deserves another, Ron leapt forward and snatched the letter from where it had been placed between two pages (Love Potions are Forbidden, but Love Cookies are Delicious and A Six-Step Charm for Unruly Hair). At once, he glued his eyes to the letter before him, reading over what was written – which he found much more elegant and poetic than his attempt at poetry – and nearly falling over from shock. When Ginny said passion, she really meant it. "Er," Hermione, who had finished reading the poem, attempted to point out and correct something on the page, but Ron pulled it away from her with a grin and continued reading.

"That settles it, then," he announced to the silence which had settled over the common room once he had finished reading the letter, gingerly folding the parchment over twice and tucking it away in his pocket. "We can't deny something that's been put in writing." . . . That was a rule or something, he knew, or at least hoped.

Hermione, who had gone back to reading the poem again – and genuinely looked touched (more touched, he noted with a large amount of self-satisfaction, than she had ever looked over Krum's letters) – folded up the already wrinkled parchment and placed it within the inner pocket of her robes. "You're right, Ron," she announced with a sigh – the first time, perhaps, she had noted that he was right about something . . . and, really, the only time he thought actually cared.

"I am?" he asked in disbelief, if only to hear her repeat those three magical words again.

Yet, instead, she said three different words, even more magical than the three he had intended to hear from her. "I love you."

And, dimly, he realized that he was supposed to say something to her in return, but found himself only able to look down at her and within the depths of her beautiful eyes. Momentarily, Ron thought to ask You do? as he had asked, disbelieving, for repeated reassurance over his being correct, but realized that she did – and, thus, he would be hearing that particular statement much more. "I love you," he countered, unable to keep the broad grin from his face.

As if the entire display was the Quidditch World Cup and the favored team had just caught the Golden Snitch, the crowded Gryffindor common room burst out with echoing cheers. The cheering – which was quite an odd thing to happen, Ron thought – only reached him as a quiet hum, a shadow of the roar it actually was, as he was far to busy embracing and giving Hermione quite the cliché kiss – which was very unlike that which he received the night before – having no idea that the two of them had just been forced into playing out the perfect ending to the most perfect, and classic, story of romance in existence.