Do you remember when you were just a little boy? Let me take a guess at it: Girls were pretty much an alien life form; completely unlike yourself, not to mention gross. You think back to all of those childhood memories of girls chasing you, trying to kiss you, and when they succeeded, you would shout "EW! GIRL COOTIES!" You would get away from those "creatures" as soon as possible. But every once in awhile you'd find one girl who you didn't mind chasing you, whose cooties maybe weren't so bad.
Then when you got a little older, girls were still a completely different species; a species you'd like to find more about. Suddenly that girl you didn't mind chasing you is making your palms sweat, your heart race, and your mind go blank whenever she was around.
For me, it was always that bushy-haired brunette who always had her nose in a book; I just didn't realize it until I was fourteen. And what, may you ask, happened to cause this sudden wave of comprehension? It's pure and simple: She went to the Yule Ball with my favorite Quidditch star.
Ever since I first heard this news, I wanted to know who, but she refused to tell me. Well, I finally had my answer. And I didn't like it. I felt like I was going to blow up. And I did.
Was I being overprotective of her? Perhaps. Was I feeling regret that I hadn't asked her sooner? Most likely. Was it jealousy? Without a doubt.
But I, of course, was too stupid to admit that. We had a fight later in the common room and ended up not speaking to each other.
Since then, Hermione has always insisted she and Viktor were "just friends." But he always wanted to be more. Just like I want there to be more between us, Hermione, I wanted to say. I wanted to hold her close, smell her hair; feel the softness of her lips—someone opened the portrait hole just then. And guess who it was? Yep, it was Hermione.
"Ron? C'mon, we have prefect duties in five minutes." Oh, no. I can't handle this. She's too gorgeous! I'll make an idiot out of myself!
"What? Oh, right." I just knew my face matched my hair. "See you Harry."
I looked at my essay one last time and about choked on my own spit. There, written on it was "Hermione Jane Weasley". And it was written about fifty times. Somebody HELP me! Anything! Just don't let Hermione see that paper!
"Have fun." Harry answered, trying to stifle a laugh; he had seen the parchment. Great. Now Harry is going to tell Ginny about this and they'll both take the mickey out of me!
While we were walking down the corridor, I suddenly had this uncontrollable urge to hold her hand. After much internal debate (What will she say? Will she hate me? Then, another side said: How will you ever know if you don't even try?) I hate it when my conscience makes so much sense.
Tentatively, I reached out my hand and took hers. It felt soft and warm; quite unlike my sweaty palms. I braced myself for a slap in the face and a reprimand, but it didn't come. Her cheeks flushed a bit, and she gave me a secretive smile.
Not another word was spoken.