A/N: Well, I guess this is better than the last time I updated. Sure, two-ish weeks is kind of a long time, but this is really good for me. You can still feel more than welcome to throw sharp, painful objects at me if you wish, however. From now on, things are going to get a whole lot fluffier between our two favourite people. No Harry in this chapter…sorry to all his fans. We'll make up for it soon J

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, etc. are the intellectual property of JKR; no infringement is intended.

Chapter 6: Gilded Cage

She felt strangely horrible upon waking up. Her head was fuzzy, as though she'd been drugged or as though she'd spend much too much time sleeping. There was a pressure in her head that made it feel as though it would explode at any moment and her chest felt odd, as though her lungs were being pressed on by two invisible hands, and it was warm in the common room, the air around her so oppressive that she felt she might suffocate if it got any warmer. Damn. She hated being sick but she had to admit to herself that she was.

Being ill, though, didn't explain why her entire lower half felt as though a Hippogriff were sitting on it.

She opened her eyes, surprised at how dark it was for a Sunday afternoon. She looked out the window and was shocked at seeing the sun making its way down for the night, casting a warm, reddish glow on everything. She'd slept the whole day away! How could Ron and Harry have let her do such a thing?

She attempted to get up but was prevented from doing so by the weight on top of her. Throwing off the blanket that covered her (and wondering who it was that could have put it there) she sat up. Upon further inspection it was apparent just what—or who—was preventing her from getting up. Ron had apparently fallen asleep beside her sometime in the afternoon. His head lay on her lap, his arms entwined around her legs, most of his weight on her. One of his legs was hanging over the arm of the sofa while the other hung over its edge, his foot on the floor. He couldn't possibly be very comfortable. Hermione was about to yell out "Ron!" and demand an explanation but when she inhaled to do so, she started coughing madly, an odd tickle in her chest. It may not have been what she was going for, but Ron nonetheless woke up with a start. Of course, she was too busy trying to catch her breath—she was still coughing and her eyes were now watering—to say anything to him.

"Hermione?" he asked groggily, sitting up and rubbing his sore neck, then he looked at her and his eyes widened.

"Why are you crying!?" he asked her, closing the distance between them and making a move as though to hug her. She held out her hand and pushed him away from her. She was having enough trouble breathing on her own without suffocating by being in such close proximity to someone—even if that someone was Ron, whose proximity she quite liked being close to. She'd finally regained her breath and wiped at the moisture that had run down her cheeks.

"I'm not crying, Ron," she spoke, her voice sounding kind of croaky and breathless all at once.

"God, you sound awful," Ron said and she felt him put his hand on her forehead again. She tried shrugging him off—even when she felt horrible, this kind of contact with him was unnerving—but he gave her such a look that she'd never seen before and that made her sit still. For a split second, Ron had reminded her so much of Mrs. Weasley that the woman herself could have been sitting in front of her.

"You're really burning up, Hermione," Ron, whose hands were now gently around her neck, said.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked referring to the prodding at her throat. Ron smiled sheepishly.

"I've no idea; Mum always does that when we're sick."

"I am not—" Hermione responded automatically but the next place Ron put his hand was over her mouth.

"Oh yes you are, and you're going to see Madam Pomfrey."

~*~

"Why do I have to stay? I'm not the one who's sick, here!" Ron was protesting as Hermione watched Madam Pomfrey try to force him into the bed next to hers. In the middle of laughing at him, though, she was caught with another coughing fit and Ron threw a reproachful glare in her direction…as though it was all her fault that they'd gotten ill and were now stuck in the infirmary. Who was it that had wanted to go traipsing in the rain? Who was it that had insisted she come up here and who had accompanied her to make certain she did? Well it certainly wasn't her fault now, was it? Nope, nope, nope.

"Now, Miss Granger, you will kindly take this draught," Madam Pomfrey said, having succeeded in getting Ron settled down and handing her a vial of bright red potion that smelled strongly of cinnamon. It burned the inside of her mouth as she gulped it down; steam began shooting out of her ears as the Pepperup Potion took effect and the pressure inside her head vanished. Her throat also felt slightly better.

"I'm afraid that will do nothing for your cough, Miss Granger. Unfortunately that will have to heal on its own. There are potions that can be taken but not in conjunction with the one you've just imbibed. I can only treat one malady, and the head cold is the most uncomfortable of the two." She turned to Ron whose arms were crossed over his chest and who wore a very unhappy look.

"As for you, Mr Weasley, you have a slight fever which is bound to develop into whatever Miss Granger has contracted. Your throat hurts, doesn't it?" she asked Ron, her eyes boring into him.

"Just a twinge," Ron admitted and Hermione was amazed that the school nurse could detect that just by looking at him.

"Well you'll just have to suffer through it," she handed him a lozenge, "but this should help at least a little. How's your, er, stomach feeling?" Madam Pomfrey asked and Hermione wondered what that had to do with anything.

"Just fine, thanks," Ron said, rather more sharply than Hermione would have expected and to her surprise Madam Pomfrey actually smiled.

"Very well, Mr. Weasley, I see you wish to be left alone now. I've an engagement with Madam Pince for tea, anyway. She's gotten her hands on some Muggle volumes for the Muggle Studies collection and we've been especially enthralled with the works of one Jane Austen. But regardless, I'll leave you to get some rest. I'll trust you to behave yourself, Mr. Weasley," she said, the corners of her mouth in a twitch as she left the infirmary.

Hermione yawned. Having steam coming shooting out of one's ears tended to take a lot out of you. She turned to her side, however, towards Ron.

"What was that all about?" she asked him. He glared.

"I've absolutely no idea. I don't have a clue who Jane Astin is."

"Jane Austen, Ron. She's one of the greatest romance novelists of all time in the Muggle world," she said, yawning again. She was going to fall asleep soon, she knew it, was fighting slumber already.

"Oh," Ron responded.

"We can always ask her when she comes back," she yawned again, the words a mere thought that had entered her mind before sleep finally overtook her.

~*~

Ron was moaning pitifully in the bed beside her, complaining about a sore throat and aching neck. The sound had woken her from a dreamless slumber and she felt disoriented for a moment until she remembered that she'd been brought to the infirmary—much against her will, for that matter.

"For Merlin's sake, Ron, suck it up!" she snapped in her half-awaken state.

"That's easy for you to say, you're not in nearly as much pain as I am," he whined and Hermione opened her eyes to see him pouting at her from his bed. She closed her eyes and rolled onto her back, heaving an exasperated sigh that immediately turned into a coughing fit. By the time she'd regained breath again, her eyes were watery and her head was ringing.

"You know that cough sounds really bad; maybe you should see someone about it," he said and she threw him her version of a scathing look. Ron sighed in turn. "Jeez, why is it girls always have to be so grumpy when they're sick?" he asked, obviously rhetorically. He too turned onto his back, but brought a hand to his neck mid-movement. "Ow," he whined again.

"Why is it men always have to be such babies when they're sick?" she asked though she doubted she'd ever get an answer to that particular question.

"I'm not a baby," she heard him whisper under his breath in the tone of a six-year-old. She was surprised not to see him cross his arms over his chest and huff.

"Fine," she said, deciding she'd play into his obvious demand for sympathy. "What's wrong?" she asked.

He turned his head towards her, his pouting better than she'd ever seen on any child. "My throat hurts," he said, "and my neck too, and the lozenge Madam Pomfrey gave me melted two hours ago and I can't fall asleep because this pillow is too lumpy—and my neck hurts," he mentioned for the second time.

Perhaps it was because it was impossibly not to respond to Ron's show, or perhaps it was merely the feelings she'd developed for him acting up in a moment of weakness, but Hermione climbed out of her bed and staggered over to Ron's.

"Hi," she said, crawling in beside him.

"Hi," he pouted.

"Where does your neck hurt?" He pointed with his index finger.

"There," he said.

"Fine, turn around and let me see what I can do," she said, taking him by the shoulders and turning him so that he was facing away from her.

This reminded her of that fateful day in Herbology where he'd washed her hair, and she wondered whether he got the same tingly feeling she'd had when he'd brushed his fingers inadvertently over the back of her neck there…and here.

She almost thought she'd detected a shiver from him, but then again that was probably just his fever talking.

"Better?" she asked, pulling hr hands away suddenly as she realized what she was doing. She was allowing her feelings to get the better of her again.

"Um yeah, thanks," was Ron's reply as he put his hand were hers had just been and moved his head from side to side as if to test the results.

"You should try to get some sleep," Hermione said, going to step out of the bed and return to her own, but Ron grabbed a hold of her wrist.

"No, stay. I can't sleep with this pillow anyway, it's too lumpy. And it's mighty warm in here isn't it? It's a wonder Madam Pomfrey doesn't melt in this place," Ron muttered and Hermione realized he was right. It really was quite stuffy in the room and Ron was, by his own admission, a very picky sleeper.

Hermione smiled as something struck her. "I have an idea."

~*~

It occurred to him that sleeping on a chilly stone floor was no way to get better, but the cold against his back felt much more soothing than the warm, stuffy confines of the hospital bed.

Hermione lay next to him, arm under her head, eyes gazing at the sheet they'd suspended between the bed frames so that it acted as a veil over their heads. This reminded him of the forts that he and his brothers used to construct in their childhood—using as many of their Mum's clean sheets as they could get their hands on.

"What's on your mind?" Hermione asked him and he turned his head towards her. She was watching him, almost studying him, Ron thought as he felt her eyes move over his face, and he immediately felt self-conscious.

"Nothing much, my childhood," he said, turning his eyes back to the cotton canopy above their heads. He still felt her eyes on him. It made him feel both excited and nervous. He wasn't sure whether he liked it.

"I see," she answered and he felt the tip of her fingers run over a section of his jaw. Her hands were cool against his skin but it felt as though he'd been burned. He jerked away in surprise, bringing his hand up to where she'd touched him.

"What?" he asked, annoyed that he would feel this way—pleased at the touch and yearning for more.

"Sorry," she said, his annoyance wasn't directed at her but she must have detected it. "You just," she explained, "missed a spot shaving," she said.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply so that when he next spoke his voice would be level. He didn't want her to think he was mad at her. He was mad at the world, mad at himself, but not at her—never at her.

"Oh," he said, attempting to smile despite the sudden difficulty of being so close to he and knowing it would never by anything other than friendship. "Well I hate shaving so when I do it it's usually quick and carefree." She smiled at those words.

"That would explain why you cut yourself, then." He wasn't aware that he had but it didn't really surprise him. In his hurry to get shaving over with he usually nicked himself at least once or twice.

"Where?" he asked, and his stomach lurched when she touched him again.

"Right here," she whispered. Then, "does it hurt?"

"Yeah." For a moment he'd forgotten that they were talking about his cut. He looked into her eyes and time for him seemed to stop as she met his gaze. He could feel his face moving closer to hers, felt the familiar pull in his chest as his lips began tingling the closer they got to hers.

Hermione wasn't pulling away, didn't seem disturbed by the fact that he was getting so near. It took all he had not to kiss her, to let his face hover a mere fraction of an inch away without breaking the short distance between them, but he couldn't take advantage of her while she was feverish and obviously didn't realize what he'd been about to do.

Ron didn't think it would have ever been possible in a million years but for a very brief fraction of a second, he'd almost wished he were more like Malfoy. Almost, if only for the fact that Malfoy wouldn't have hesitated to kiss Hermione, wouldn't have any qualms about kissing her even in her diminished state. And oh how Ron did want to kiss her—to the point where it almost hurt not to.

"What time is it?" he said instead, turning onto his back once more so that he wouldn't have to look at Hermione, wouldn't be tempted by the very sight of her to do something that would prove to be very foolish. When, after an extended silence, Hermione still hadn't answered, he risked a glance in her direction and saw that she had fallen asleep.

~*~

He woke up in his bed and thought for a moment that he'd imagined everything. Looking around he realized that Hermione was also in bed and that all signs of their makeshift accommodations from the night before had vanished.

For a moment he thought that he'd dreamed everything that had happened, happy for the fact that dreaming about wanting to kiss your best friend was a lot easier to accept than living wanting to kiss your best friend.

He had almost convinced himself that everything had been a figment of his imagination when he saw Madam Pomfrey approach. The look on her face told him that everything he remembered had been very real—and she was not happy about it.

"Mr. Weasley," she said as she came to stand by his bed, hands on her hips. He realized that there was sunlight streaming in through the windows and concluded that it was morning. Ron swallowed hard in preparation for the verbal lashing he expected to get—his Mum had that same look when she was getting ready to yell at him, and so did Hermione for that matter. In swallowing, however, he realized that his throat felt as though a thousand little needles were stabbing it from the inside and he fell back against his pillow with a groan.

Madam Pomfrey, seeing this, sighed and seemed to be biting her tongue against what she'd been about to say and instead handed him another lozenge.

"Here. I trust you're feeling bad enough already without my telling you what an outrage it was to find you and Miss Granger not only out of bed but sleeping on the floor. There are strict rules in this school about fraternisation between students, Mr. Weasley, and I trust that I won't have to remind you again that just because there are no separate lodgings in the infirmary as there are in the dormitories, it does not give you license to go—" but Ron interrupted her.

"I understand," he said, his head beginning to ache from the lecture she hadn't been supposed to give him. To his surprise, Madam Pomfrey actually smiled.

"Good. Because if you're going to be staying the week I don't want anymore—"

"Week!?" Had he just heard correctly? Did she really expect him to spend an entire week in the infirmary just for a little touch of a cold? But that was outrageous! "Madam Pomfrey, there's no way I'm going to stay cooped-up in here for an entire week! I—"

"Tut, tut, Mr Weasley. I don't want to hear another word of protest from you, or I'll have to report last night's incident to your head of house."

"But—"

"Tut!" Madam Pomfrey said again, and the first thought that came into Ron's head was Hermione is going to be livid.

"Fine," Ron backed down, now thinking of the lecture he would have to endure from McGonagall if Madam Pomfrey reported him.

"Good," the nurse said, turning as if to leave. "And one more thing, Mr. Weasley," she started.

"What's that?" Ron asked, now sulking.

"If you ever decide to repeat last night's episode," she said. Here it comes, she's going to threaten expulsion, he thought. "Just make sure I don't catch you, all right?" she finished, and he could hear the smile in her voice. She exited the infirmary and Ron was too flabbergasted by her words to respond.