Neither of them could particularly explain how it happened. And certainly, it was happening. As it had happened a million times before, and would end up happening a million times again. But neither teenager would acknowledge it as it was happening, nor after. And there was certainly no before, as it was never anticipated that it might happen again.
Even if they each secretly hoped for it.
The first time it happened was in third year, a year when Hermione was overworked and overworn, and was loath to admit it. Ron had decided (after careful contemplation) she was a little too stuck up after having thought she was rather sweet over the summer. Seeing her back in school reminded him why he was a little scared of her. It was not the butterflies-in-the-stomach sort of way he had been a little scared of her over the summer, but in the normal, run-of-the-mill, 'she'll be angry if I don't do my work and I crave her approval' sort of way he usually was scared of her.
Hermione, as she often did, was reading in the common room. As a third year she didn't yet have invitations to parties, or the want to break curfew for anything other than moral righteousness or The Good of The Wizarding World, and so she spent her Friday nights bundled up and reading in the drafty old Gryffindor tower.
She was in a soft but rather silly pajama set she had just received for Christmas, with slippers in front of her on the floor she was curled on the couch reading under a blanket. A cup of hot chocolate steamed next to her, in a fantastic little thermos she had brought from home.
Hermione was, as she often was, only vaguely aware of the world outside her scope of vision. Her cat, Crookshanks, would often pop in and out, resting on the couch's tall back, or if he were feeling more aggressively snuggly, on her lap.
It threw him a little off-kilter to see her sitting on a couch reading what clearly was a muggle book one day in January. He balked for a moment, looking at the colorful drawing, done in color and somehow shiny on the book's front. A muggle book? For a girl whose boggart had been a professor telling her she didn't belong in the magical world? It was odd. Contradictory in the highest, Ron decided, and he left it at that.
Ron sat down next to her, at a cautious but friendly distance. He knew he looked like a caricature of the gangly teenage boy with his slightly out-grown pajamas. Socks showing well above his ankles, shirt not quite covering his stomach but thin enough and young enough not to care, wrists perpetually uncovered and a bit chilly. His hair (somewhat unfortunately) was the same shade of red as Crookshanks', and really rather long at this point.
They were secluded from the rest of the Gryffindor common room in a not-quite-dark but not-quite-bright corner. Her cat being known to curl up to her there, from time to time, as she read and being the good cat owner and reader and multitasker that she was, Hermione was adept at placing her hand right at the crook of his neck and scritching. Not scratching- scratching was too harsh a word for the delicate movement of her fingers, back and forth through a few centimeters of fur- but scritching.
This habit and her inattention, and what Hermione later described to Ron as "the first time you've ever kept your bloody mouth shut", resulted in Hermione reaching over, thinking Ron's head was her cat, and scritching.
It took a moment for Ron to realize what had happened, or rather that it was happening, as he didn't realize he had been mistaken for a cat. As it was rather nice, he let it go for another moment or two before turning to his partner on the couch and calmly what she was reading. The small gasp let out on her part was heard only by him, and he savored the sound for no reason he could come up with, but let it replay over and over in his mind as he looked at the ceiling trying to sleep later that night.
"Ron-ald" she scolded, quickly turning back to her book, "I didn't see you there. Give a girl some warning. A 'hello' would do."
Ron blushed, the brilliant tomato color reaching the tips of his ears rather quickly. If Hermione noticed, she said nothing (she was rather used to his blushing, and had figured since sometime in second year that he was just easily excitable. Or embarrassed.), and waited with lips pursed for an answer. Ron looked around, hoping to excuse his intrusion by making small talk.
"What are you doing?"
Without looking up from her page (though this took some effort), Hermione responded, "Reading."
"About what?", the very quick reply from a curious Ron, as he moved a little closer.
Hermione took a sharp breath in. She wasn't particularly a fan of being in close quarters with anyone or anything but Crookshanks. She found, however, that Ron's presence starting to encroach on the tips of her toes wasn't discomforting for the normal reasons. Instead, it was discomforting for a plethora of other reasons which she was unwilling to consider at that moment (but would surely dwell upon that evening). Hopeful that Ron hadn't noticed, she responded shortly. "Nothing. It's just a book."
"No books are about nothing." Ron groaned. "What class are you studying that for anyway? It doesn't look like any book I've got."
"It's a novel." Hermione rolled her eyes, "it's just a story."
"So a bed-time story?" Hermione looked over for the first time since he arrived. His eyes were twinkling at the prospect of a bed-time story, of all things.
"Um, not quite. Do wizards not have novels?" She looked back over at the boy next to her, his hair long and soft (why, oh why did she start playing with it earlier?), and his face alight with curiosity. He was shaking his head, with a confused expression on his face. Unable to describe the concept more properly, she turned to the front of the book and began reading aloud, "It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers..."
Ron, now rooted into a spot he had just meant to pass by, was transfixed. The sound of his friend's voice was almost melodic, and she came to life reading aloud to him about a young girl named Matilda (who was clearly a young witch, but when he tried to point this out to Hermione, he was hushed and told to listen for once in his bloody life), and as the hours passed by he became more and more comfortable, sinking in his seat. He glanced at her book as he settled in, and smiled.
It was so thoroughly hers, beaten-up, battered, broken in, and bent along the spine. Little tears no one would notice unless they were looking closely at the edges of paper, waiting to jump across the page at a moment's notice. Clearly it had been loved.
As the clocks ticked closer to curfew, Ron was aware that older students would be filtering in. He thought, perhaps, that his brothers might be amongst this group, and that he might be seen in his small corner, but never was. He looked around suspiciously, and rested his head back down, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the soft waves of her voice.
Soon the lights in the common room were going out, and Hermione's reading slowed. While both participants were steadily refusing to acknowledge it, they had somehow become practically horizontal, Hermione's legs slipping out down the couch, and Ron's torso toppling down next to hers. His head rested half perched on her stomach, her arms and book coming to rest on his head. The change had been gradual, from their position sitting next to each other to this odd, ignored, inexplicably comfortable cuddle.
Ron's breathing slowed, and Hermione realized her audience was lost. She put the book down, exhausted herself, and sleepily smiled down. Placing a hand in his hair, she told herself she would be lost for a moment.
A moment turned into something like four or five hours, it turned out. Hermione woke with a small startle (as one often wakes when they are in a new or unfamiliar place to sleep), to the dark common room. Her companion tightened his loose grip around her midsection as she began to sit up, a faint grumble of argument against her leaving the little space only they could exist in together.
She melted a little, very aware of the arm that had swindled its way under her back, of his breathing against her stomach, of the small furrow of his brow. Somehow it made sense to be curled up like this, and so she let it be, unworried about the outside world for a moment longer, and placed her hand at the back of Ron's head, toying with the slightly curled red hair and trying to align her breathing to his soft, steady pace.
