Rapidly covering more than two years in the HP universe, this is the story of Ron and Hermione's engagement. Not everyone is happy about it. Part Three, Ron's POV.

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Normally he wouldn't care one fig about what someone's thinking – particularly Harry, because Harry always comes out and tells him anyway; sometimes it takes a while, but Ron always wrangles the full truth from his best mate eventually – but Hermione's constantly reminding him that it wouldn't kill him to be a little more sensitive. "Sensitive, Ron," she scolds him, closing her eyes against her gasp when he pinches one coral-coloured nipple lightly between his broad fingers. "It would be – oh," she tries to continue, her words falling off into a swallowed sigh, and he grins up at her, triumphant that he's managed to divert her attention, sheepish because – well, hell, she may be right.

He does okay with Ginny, maybe because he understands her pretty well. Youngest children in a big family – that should give them something gin common, shouldn't it? Sometimes he gives her an awkward pat on the shoulder or a scratch on the head the way Hermione does with Crookshanks, and she throws him an embarrassed grin in return. He doesn't always know exactly what's she's thinking, but most of the time he can figure out whether she needs a hug or a nicked cream cake or just a loud, raucous game of wizarding chess.

Fred and George have never paid attention to, or cared about, what people are thinking, either. As far as they're concerned, if people aren't thinking about what a marvelously hilarious joke they've just pulled, then they'd better pull another one quick. It makes the twins easy to laugh with and hard to live with. Ron tends to avoid them when he's feeling glum; it doesn't cheer up him to sprout donkey's ears six times in a row.

Percy is another story entirely. Ron tries to avoid him no matter whether he's feeling down or cheerful or anxious; in fact, the only time Percy is really good company is when Ron needs to be bored to sleep. Of course, it hasn't really been a problem anymore since the end of the war, and Percy has apologized but hasn't really spent time at home since then. R on remembers that they used to be reasonably close, used to be able to tune out explosions and fistfights and shouts of "Expelliarmus!" all around to concentrate on game after game of chess. But they've never really talked, and by the time Ron was old enough to talk about subjects that mattered, he had had also realized that the only things that mattered to Percy were boring things that Ron had no interest in.

As for Bill and Charlie, they're so much older, and have been out of the house for nearly as long as Ron can remember – certainly as long as Ginny can remember – he doesn't know much about them. What they think, how they feel, if they care about what other people think. They've always been close anyway, with just those fifteen months between them, that it's nearly like having another set of twins in the family, who don't share much with their brothers, and don't need much shared with them.

But Harry isn't a brother, although he's as close as one; he's just a friend, just Ron's best mate, and that makes it all different, of course. It means that Ron can't take for granted their relationship, the way he does with each of his brothers, and for the first time he thinks that maybe Hermione is right. "All right, then, Harry?" he asks awkwardly that night, when both boys are changing into their pajamas in the dormitory room. Harry is standing with is back to Ron, methodically buttoning his maroon-striped pajama top, and refuses to turn around even when Ron says his name. "I guess, um – I mean, Hermione said, you know, you and Ginny seemed kind of surprised."

"Hermione said that?" It's Harry's turn to sound surprised, but he still won't turn around to face Ron. He's pulling on his pajama bottoms now, giving Ron a clear (and amusing) view of his lion-printed maroon boxers. It makes Ron chuckle, lightly, and the muscles in Harry's legs tightened involuntarily, but he still refuses to glance back at Ron. "What're you laughing at?"

"Nothing," Ron replies quickly. Making his best mate think he's laughing at him is not, he suspects, a good way to be sensitive. "I mean, why?"

"Why what?"

"You sound, you know, surprised." Yes, that sounds good. It sounds observant and … sensitive. Ron gives a decisive nod, yanking his orange nightshirt over his head carelessly. By the time he's got it on, his red hair is standing on end in a puffy fuzzball, and he tries unsuccessfully to smooth it down, not that it matters much; Hermione said she's got too much work tonight to come up after she's done. For the first time, he gets an idea of what it must be like for Harry to live with that mop of dark hair all the time. "Hermione notices things like that."

"Does she."

Is that sarcasm, or just a tired edginess in his best mate's voice? Harry sounds cool and unruffled, like the smooth glassy surface of the Hogwarts lake, and it's confusing the hell out of Ron. Generally, Harry isn't one to play games. When he's mad he'll let Ron know it – like the time Ron behaved like a first-class git (Hermione's words) at the beginning of the Triwizard tournament – and when he's happy for Ron, he'll let him know it – like when he turned out to be entirely supportive of Ron's trying out for the Quidditch team back in fifth year. Besides, Harry's a guy too, and what guy is actually good at dropping hints and hiding things and keeping secrets? Seamus, for example, had told the entire dorm within thirty minutes of sleeping with Parvati, and Dean couldn't keep his mouth shut about the one date he went on with Ginny, even after Ron threatened to pound him into pumpkin juice in the middle of the night.

So Ron comes to the only conclusion that he can, that something else must be bothering Harry, and he doesn't know what, and he isn't quite sure if he's supposed to ask. That's the problem with learning this sensitivity thing; sure, he's supposed to be more sensitive, but how's he supposed to know how? "Erm. You, uh, don't want to talk about it?"

"No." Harry's voice is muffled as he sticks his head inside the box of the deep red curtains surrounding his bed, apparently hunting for something else that's so important he still can't turn around and look at Ron. "I'm going to sleep."

Frustrated, Ron watches as Harry dives into the curtains, disappearing head-first into the sanctity of his bed, more confused than exasperated at this point. Well, at least now he'll be able to tell Hermione that this newfound male-sensitivity thing is a pile of pants. "Hey, Harry?"

"What?"

Harry's face comes shoving its way through the curtains, and the look on his face makes Ron stop saying whatever he was planning to say. His best mate looks confused too, ruffled the way Crookshanks does when you pet him the wrong way, and mad – but there's something else there, something that Ron hasn't learned quite enough about sensitivity to read. "Er – nothing."

Harry sighs, and the expression between his bright green eyes changes, smoothing itself into nothing again. Ron watches, and Harry's face makes itself look like glass – flat and even, and anything else Ron wants to say bounces off the rounded edges of his cheeks.