Sometimes she wished Ron were more attractive.
The first time she saw him, he reminded her of an orangutan, distortedly proportioned limbs, a coat of orange, and a dull expression on his face that matched the words issuing from his mouth.
Things changed - Ron grew into his extremities, she tempered her ego.
Eventually, when he furrowed his brow while working out a complex chess problem, it brought a smile to her lips. When he raised his eyebrows as she recounted a newly acquired gem of knowledge, she learned that he was impressed, even if he would soon cover it up by saying something contemptuous concerning her dedication to schoolwork. Ultimately, when she dug her fingers into his thick red hair and he gasped her name upon climaxing inside her, she knew she could never be happier.
Still, she would dream about a man with Harry's eyes or Viktor's body and feel a strange twinge of disappointment upon waking to Ron's drooling face. She would catch the adorable local librarian watching her through his squared spectacles, and she would wonder what he might be like. Over the dinner table, in bed, how he would be different, and what would remain the same.
She would think that if only Ron would wear a better cut of robes, and if he didn't refuse a new haircut, and if he hadn't gained that gut in recent years...
And he would walk into the room, interrupt her rumination, and kiss the crown of her head. He would play with her hair, and call her "'mione," and tease her gently. His ministrations always reminded her that she had almost seen the end of the world, and this definitely wasn't it. They always reminded her why she had been attracted to him in the first place.