"Fred, dear – anything to report?"
Fred shook his head. "All quiet. I can't believe it, but I wish we had the old Snape back. Apart from the evil, that is. At least there was a reliable source of information – I assume." George had elbowed Fred in the ribs, on the off-chance that there was anyone currently sitting around the table who did not know of the twins' penchant for amateur sleuthing before they were quite admitted into the Order, itself, per se. "It was good information. Judging by the actions of senior Order members, of course." Harry and Ron couldn't stifle their shared grin, but Hermione shocked everyone by suppressing a chuckle.
Mrs. Weasley chose to glare at her son's response. Order meetings had begun to resemble Christmas dinner at the Weasley household: as usual, Mrs. Weasley (who had asked to be admitted and could not be denied) was in command, Fred and George (the only resident pranksters since Mundungus' unfortunate but unavoidable jail time) would never quite salute, and Percy was characteristically missing. It was about the only thing any of the Order members enjoyed, now that their network of information had practically run dry and the state of affairs in England seemed to be getting, incredibly, more ghastly and grim by the minute.
"Harry, I know you're only passing through, but you have my son and his lady-friend with you and I do think you might find a few days to…" This was Molly's (admirable, in her opinion) approach to diplomacy, but it did no good. Harry shook his head.
"The cup took a lot out of us, but we're only a quarter done, if that. We have to leave again tomorrow."
"Sorry, mum." Ron added guiltily. "We'll send something."
"What, from Africa?" Hermione stared at him incredulously. "Are you off your nut?"
A bit scandalized, Molly asked Hermione if she wouldn't rather lie down for a bit. Hermione brusquely refused, choosing instead to commandeer the meeting and begin questioning Tonks and Lupin about their recent progress with the Teng-la, a rural tribe of hill-men whose habit of raising and training domesticated bogarts would make them handy allies. Ron and Harry exchanged a glance over her head.
Meeting was adjourned not a quarter-hour later, and both boys had the somewhat alarming but necessary task of confronting a cross-looking Hermione.
"Uh, Hermione, look, we know there hasn't been much time to sleep lately, and-"
"Ron," Hermione turned to him and leveled her best Madam-Pince death-glare, and Ron found, to nobody's shock, that he couldn't say another word. "I'm fine. Just drop it, alright?" This was good enough for Harry, who felt bad about it but made a hasty exit anyway.
"'Mione," Ron lowered his voice, "We're okay, right? You're still my – my 'Mione, yeh?"
Hermione gave a tight, uncomfortable smile. "Sure, Ron," she said empathetically. "Come on, let's get upstairs. I want sleep."
"Awww," Ron moaned, "You wanted to sleep tonight? Didn't we just do that last night?" This got him a genuine smile, Hermione turning around on the stairs to bestow it on him before racing up. He followed quickly.
Just before they fell asleep (how disappointing, Hermione hadn't been joking after all) she turned to him. "Ron?" she whispered.
"Yeh?" he croaked.
"Luna's doing some really good work, isn't she?"
Ron smushed himself further into the pillow. "Haha, yeah. If you learn to filter out all the nutso stuff you've got some real gold under there. She's probably our best source right now – why d'you ask?"
"So… that's why you were whispering so much with her, then?"
"What? Don't tell me you think I fancy Loony Lovegood – oh, don't try to act like it's mean, I know you wanted to hear it –" in response to Hermione's indignant huff at the nickname, "Over you? You've got to be losing it, 'Mione, really. I was… you know, how you always say it… 'enjoying sterling conversation concerning the Lovegood genetic psychopathology.' It's really just entertaining."
Hermione turned back to stare into his face. "Oh, Ron, really?"
"Sure of it," Ron responded decisively, and gratefully received a quick kiss as reward. When Hermione turned away from him again a moment later, he snuggled closer, ignoring that stab of guilt. He was totally sure Hermione was the girl for him, but funny old Luna, always batty and unashamedly so, had been fascinating him since even before he and Hermione had finally declared themselves to each other. It was nonsense, clearly – anything concerning Luna inevitably was – but Ron inadvertently found himself practicing a mind technique not too far removed from Draco's to get his thoughts moving in the right direction, before they finally spun away into space and sleep surged in to fill the emptiness.
Harry, in the next room, had a bit more trouble. He was worried, as usual, and (as embarrassing as it might be) this time it wasn't about the downward spiral of the Order into near-helplessness, or the daunting task of finding and facing three more horcruxes before Voldemort himself. This was about Ron and Hermione. Ron and Hermione and Luna and Hermione's suspicion and, on top of all that, Hermione's plain and simple unhappiness. Harry didn't get it – that is, the two of them were clearly meant to end up together. He didn't see why Hermione would be dissatisfied with that. Ron was great: funny, nice, loyal and sometimes endearingly helpless. Everything Harry could ask for in a friend. Everything Hermione should want in a bloke.
He kind of wished they could go back to just all being friends, though. Easier; better. Happier.
A/N: Don't like this chapter as much as the first, because unless you're a Luna-lover like me (I carefully monitor her every appearance in the series), this would really come out of nowhere. If you can accept the premise of it, then we're alright.