A/N: Thank you to all my great reviewers, especially those of you who noticed and corrected me on Ginny's real name! Wonderful reviews make all the time and effort I put into this story worth it, so thanks to: passionflower24 Christine, Lost Somewhere.Out.There, Ginny PoshSpice, Dwarfed Half Elf, and ronnlover87. Obviously, this is not a one-shot fiction; I plan on carrying it on for as many more chapters as inspiration takes me! So please, read, review, and check for updates! God Bless You!

I eloquently woke up, stretching my arms dramatically, blearily blinking the windows to my soul open. An unexpected sight blocked my vision significantly; a shock of red hair. Wait, red hair? What was Ron doing...?

Then all the memories came rushing back to me: the terrible nightmare...finding Ron in the living room...sobbing in his chest...sitting on his lap...playing with his luscious hair...Ronald Weasley acting the most affectionate and daring in the six years I'd known him...my large, chatty mouth unable to be controlled...But as it all sunk in, so did the harsh reality: nothing really had happened; he didn't profess his undying love for me, nor did we share a sweet, lingering kiss.

"Morning, 'Mione," Ron yawned widely.

"Good morning, Ronald!" I said brightly, purposely using his despised birth name. The objects of my thoughts let out a loudly, raspy cough in response.

"Ronald, whatever is the matter? Are you ill?" I adopted my "Motherly-Hermione" attitude and rubbed his bare back soothingly. Immediately tensing at my touch (wicked smile!), the lanky redhead snickered, "I believe I was just attacked by a vicious hairball of yours."

Now, I definitely took more than a little bit of offense at his teasing remark. Yes, I do admit that my hair undeniably consists of millions of frizzy, brown corkscrew curls, which each possess a mind of their own, but HONESTLY! Over the years I have tamed my rebellious mass down quite a bit; it doesn't nearly have as much excessive volume and bushiness as it did on the fateful meeting on the train, was that six years ago? Really, that bloke should know better by now not to insult my hair at 7:00 in the morning, especially while I am suffering from PMS! Although, on the other hand, since my monthly cycle is not a normal topic of conversation between my male friends and I, I would frankly be scared if he knew I was currently experiencing -er- a visitor.

Reluctantly easing myself off the couch (and his comfortable lap) In a quavery voice (Oscars, here I come!) I pouted, "But just last night you said I was beautiful, Mr. Weasley. And now, this?" I let the perfect amount of hurt and disgust enter my voice as I defiantly folded my arms over my 34AA chest.

Following my lead, Ron too rose from the couch, and, mimicking my stance, locked gazes with me from his height of six feet two inches (please do not ask how I know that). "Hermione," he began seriously, flashing that lopsided grin that very quickly reduced my knees to nothing but jelly, "You are beautiful. Both inside and out. You are not like all the other girls...you are not superficial. You don't wear makeup...you aren't obsessed with fashion...you don't constantly gossip and giggle over which guys are hot are which are not (what you don't know would kill you, Ron!)...you have a true, natural, wonderful sort of beauty. You're loyal...honest...trustworthy...kind...intelligent..." (I noticed the tips of his ears were turning an adorable shade of red) "And, frankly, I consider myself bloody lucky to be your best friend."

I, Hermione Granger, am one hundred percent sure that no one-not even Ron, with his infamous tendency to blush profusely-could challenge the shade of red that stained my cheeks at his sweet words. "Really?" I squeaked, as I impulsively gave him a hug. Without thinking, I brushed my lips against his warm cheek and whispered, "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me." 'Let alone the object of my affections,' I finished silently. Bloody. I sound like one of those love-struck girls in those sappy romances Parvati and Lavender are always reading. "And, Mr. Weasley," I continued, smirking slightly at the identical blush he was sporting, "I don't know what I ever did to deserve such wonderful friends as you- and Harry," I added as almost an afterthought. "Now, for goodness sakes get some clothes on!"

"You don't like what you see?" Ron asked slyly.

Poking him in the ribcage, I played along. "Playing Keeper has really done wonders for your physique...but I'm afraid it's a sight I do not wish to force upon the other inhabitants of the house at this ungodly hour."

Heading towards the staircase in all his bare-chested glory, Ron abruptly turned around and broke into a fit of laughter. Sputtering, he managed to gasp, "You've got a heck of a lot of drool caked on the left side of your mouth...about right there," he pointed. I refused to give him the dignity of a reply. Instead, I stalked towards the bathroom. Of course, it would just happen to be occupied by none other than Ginevra Weasley. I could hear the -er- angelic strains of her voice, singing some pop song WAY off-key, even through the thick wooden door. Furiously pounding on the door, I hissed, "Ginny Weasley...you have thirty seconds before I will break down this door and reveal you in all your bed-headed glory. My 15-year old friend, however, opened the door halfway through my threat and pleaded, "Ten more minutes!"

Then it dawned on me...Harry was coming today. Grinning evilly to myself, I yelled to the now-closed door, "Just because Harry's arriving this afternoon does not mean that you are allowed to monopolize the bathroom and spend an exorbitant amount of time on your beauty routine!"

"I am not," the muffled-voice of Ginny informed me frostily, "Trying to impress Harry Potter."

"Then I do not have any romantic intentions towards your brother," I said without thinking. Dangnammit! Seems like that was happening an awful lot lately.

Once again, the door flew open as Ginny yanked me into the small bathroom. "Did you just admit that you like Ron?" she asked breathlessly. I squirmed from my perch on the closed-toilet seat and dodged the question. "Only if you still feel traces of your childhood crush for a certain raven-haired, bespectacled boy with a lightning-shaped scar."

"Ha! Then you do!" the petite redheaded cried triumphantly, not realizing the full implication of her words.

"And so do you," I said accusingly, not wanting to be the only one revealing my deepest, darkest secret I had planned on taking to the grave with me. She sat on the edge of the bathtub with a dreamy expression on face, brushing her thick, long waves of red. I analyzed my close friend with a hint of jealously. She really needed no extra time in the bathroom...Ginny was one of those people blessed with 24-hour exotic beauty. With her flaming red hair, sparkling brown eyes, and a significantly more noticeable figure than mine, she would never have a problem finding a date for Hogsmeade weekends. Just a quick swipe of a brush and a dab of lip-gloss and she was ready to woo the wizards of Hogwarts. Luckily, however, Ginny was one of those rare people who are ignorant of and modest about their looks and do not use them to their advantage.

"He likes you," Ginny said simply, now painting her toenails a vivid pink. My heart literally stopped at those three little words, and I nearly toppled from the commode. "He what?" I breathed.

Rolling her eyes, Ginny matter-of-factly said, "Hermione, we've been through this so many times. That was true. However, I'd always brushed her conclusions off, faking a laugh and scoffing, "He obviously doesn't like me that way! How ridiculous!"

"Whatever am I going to do?" I wailed dramatically, jumping about ten feet in the air when I threw up my hands in despair and accidentally flushed the toilet in the process.

"I fail to see what your dilemma is," Ginny informed me rather crossly, wiggling her toes in the air so they would dry faster. "The object of my affections only thinks of me as his best mate's little sister...and nothing more. His godfather has just been murdered, and, to top it off, the Darkest Wizard in a century and his followers want him dead...and nothing will stop them."

"Except for Dumbledore," I pointed out logically.

"Care to trade places with me?" she asked glumly.

"Not particularly." I teased. "As attractive as Harry may be, I prefer my men to be tall, strong-yet-gentle knights in shining armor with wonderful red hair, dancing blue eyes, and a strong dislike towards a certain International Quidditch player." (Oooooo I love making Ron jealous with my letters to Viktor!) As if on cue, the object of my thoughts chose that exact moment to burst into the bathroom.

"Ronald!" I scolded, "How did you know that one of us wasn't actually using the facilities?"

"I took the risk." he smirked, leaning against the doorjamb. "Anyways, I could hear the giggling and chatter of you dear ladies for miles away. And, a few names used quite often," he lowered his voice as if divulging a terrible secret. "I have concluded that one of you has a rather large crush on our favorite Boy-Who-Lived..." The blood ran cold in my veins. Just how much did that git of a snoop hear? Especially about my whole spiel on what kind of men I prefer! Catching the identical horrified expressions on our two faces, he chuckled and said quite smugly, "I knew all along, Gin, that you liked Harry. I'm really not as clueless as many believe." I beg the differ.

Letting out a huge sigh of relief (none came from my left side; Ginny was obviously more than a tad bit worried about what her scheming older brother would do with this newest bit of information), I said cheerfully, "Well, that certainly clears things up! Ron, you won't breathe a word of this to anyone- especially HARRY!"

"I won't?" he challenged, taking a step closer. "You won't," I said a little-less confidently, seeing as he was now about six inches away from me.

"And why wouldn't I?" he smiled, absentmindedly ruffling his hair. "Because it would be a great personal loss to you-and your grades- to lose me as your best friend," I informed him sweetly. As those big baby-blue eyes widened, I knew I'd struck a blow where it would hurt.

"Deal," he said dejectedly, shaking my hand to seal the pact. It wasn't until we were both about to begin eating (or in Ron's case, inhaling) a delicious breakfast of French toast and bacon five minutes later that I realized a slight problem: we were still holding hands! "Er Ron," I started awkwardly, not wishing to bring much attention to the situation, "I'm experiencing a bit of difficulty dining this morning, for I normally hold my fork with my right hand, which would currently be taking residence in your left hand."

"Sorry," he mumbled, quickly dropping my hand and bending over his steaming plate to hide the color rising on his face. Mrs. Weasley, waving her hand sleepily at the stove to speed up the frying bacon, glanced over and broke out into a rare, genuine smile. These days, there was little cheer among the members of the Order; Mrs. Weasley most of all. Five of her children (Fred and George had joined, much to her protest, the day they had officially "graduated" from Hogwarts (though they were not present at the graduation ceremony), and Percy, three days after the Ministry finally believed that Lord Voldemort had risen again) participated actively in the Order of the Phoenix, as did her husband. Her two youngest children, being close friends of Harry, were constantly in serious danger from unfriendly wizards (Voldemort and his minions). I quickly felt a deep rush of sympathy and gratitude for this kind, good-natured woman who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, but still found the time to be an excellent mother to her children- and Harry and I.

"Wlkjal afd fkljl jpliou?" Ron mumbled through a mouth of crisp bacon.

"Manners, Ronald," I reprimanded. "Would you please ever-so kindly swallow the contents of your mouth and then speak?"

"I said what are we doing today?" he glared.

"Preparing for Harry's arrival," Ginny waltzed in, fresh from a shower, her glossy red hair drying in soft waves.

"I'd say you are," Ron snickered, earning him a dirty look from all three women in the room.

"Well, I was thinking we could tackle the attic," Mrs. Weasley began, joining us at the table with her meager portion of food.

"Anything but cleaning!" Ron grumbled, reaching for the syrup.

"As I was saying," his Mum continued, "I do think we all deserve a break...you three can work on your summer assignments instead!"

"That's just a bad!" Ron groaned in disappointment, obviously believing that he got the raw end of the deal.

"We can start the three-foot long essay Snape assigned us on antidotes!" I clapped my hands excitedly, accidentally knocking my glass of milk over

The object of my affections stared at me as though I was a mutant, three headed neon green alien from outer space. "You actually enjoy homework." he said weakly, grabbing a napkin to help me sop up the milky mess.

"Yes, I certainly do!" I said a bit defensively.

"Women," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'll never be able to figure them out."

Ever-so true, my dear Mr. Weasley...you obviously haven't figured me out yet, or else you would've snogged me senseless (not saying I would put up any fight)!

Coming Up: Our favorite raven-haired, bespectacled wizard comes to 12 Grimmauld Place, and Hermione returns with her sharp, witty humor and love for a certain redhead! Harry's arrival brings more than a hint of sadness and despair to the headquarters, but the antics of Fred and George, who are there for a top-secret meeting, and the blossoming romance between Ron and Hermione (and perhaps Harry and Ginny: who knows?) brighten the spirits of all.