RON

Yours.

That word kept running through his mind as the day went on.

After breakfast, Ron returned to the room he shared with Harry and practically dove for the identical planner Hermione had given his best friend, which was carelessly left on top of Harry's other unwrapped gifts from that morning. Everything was riding on whether or not Harry's copy had a similar inscription in the back - or, and he tried desperately not to consider the possibility, something even more heartfelt.

Just before he opened Harry's planner, he got up and closed the door. That would at least give him a few seconds warning if he needed to cast the planner aside quickly.

He sat back down on his own bed and opened the book all the way to the back.

Nothing.

Ron broke out in a broad, triumphant grin. It was almost too good to be true. In fact, it very well could be.

His brow furrowed in concentration, Ron gingerly flipped through every few pages, careful not to bend any so there'd be no evidence that he'd rifled through it.

Still nothing.

Ron exhaled for what felt like the first time in an hour. So, that was it, then. She'd only written him a message. …Unless she had worked out a fancy concealment charm so that only the intended reader could find the sweet-nothings she could have penned on any page. Ron moaned at the thought. That did sound like something Hermione might do… Frustrated, Ron snapped the book shut and returned it to its original place.

He really was a git. Even if she hadn't written anything to Harry, was he really so presumptuous to make something of what she wrote to him? The heart wasn't anything. That was just…a thing girls did. It couldn't mean anything. No, what really got him was how she signed off:

Yours.

He gulped and shook his head. God, if she only knew what it did to him to think of Hermione as his in even the smallest capacity. Who in their right mind wouldn't want her? Her soft, perfect skin…and the way it flushed pink when he smiled at her (when probably anyone smiled at her, he regretfully reminded himself). The way those warm brown eyes flashed almost amber with rage when they argued. God, he loved arguing with her. She was damn hot when she got fired up - and as far as he knew, no one riled Hermione Granger up the way he did.

Something south of the equator responded to that thought, swelling and hardening under his pants. Oh, how he was sure he'd be able to really rile her up if he had the chance. All the energy they put into their arguments could go into something much more productive…

It's Christmas, you randy git. They'll wonder where you're at if you don't head back down soon…

It was a little late for that. He was thinking about those skimpy little pajama bottoms and how he could so easily rip them in two. He smirked and palmed at his hard-on. He was a git, but he wasn't completely unaware. Near-constant quidditch practices, plus the extra work he'd put in over the past summer leading into their fifth year, had him bulking up in all the right places. His arms were so thick that even the typically blousy wool-knit Christmas sweater he wore was straining around his biceps.

It was gratifying when he caught her staring. He reckoned he was as big as that prat Viktor by now. All he knew that fourth year taught him he didn't want to spend another second watching some guy who was bigger than him make Hermione swoon. That was a job he wanted all too himself - even if she never saw him the way he saw her, he could at least get her to look at him the way she used to look at Krum.

Sudden inspiration struck him, and he jumped up from his bed, only to hit the floor and knock out a couple of sets of push-ups. Ron wanted her eyes on him again, and whatever way than to get a little pump in for her benefit?

On the tenth set, he was grunting through them and only stopped at the sound of a tentative knock on the door.

"It's open!" Ron called through his pants, standing up again, brushing his hands off as the door slowly opened.

"Ron, it's me. Is everything alright in here? It sounds like you're in…" Hermione properly crossed the threshold and those beautiful brown eyes widened at once. "...pain." She squeaked out the last word, and Ron couldn't help but smirk in response.

"M'alright. Just working out a bit. Mum's food is proper amazing, but it won't help me stay in shape for quidditch. Can't let my royal subjects down, can I?" He flashed Hermione a grin - suddenly, the whole 'Weasley is our king' schtick had taken on a whole new, decidedly better meaning for him.

Hermione blinked a few times, her eyes definitely glued to Ron's arms or maybe his chest - either way, he puffed himself up and flexed his arms as discreetly as he could. Anything he could do to keep those beautiful eyes on him, he'd damn well do.

"Oh… Right. 'Course, well… I don't suppose you'd be interested in walking a few blocks over for some hot chocolate, then? The Order's having a meeting in a bit, and your mum wants us out of the way." Hermione wet her bottom lip (bloody hell), her gaze dropping again. "I'll just let the others know we aren't joining them."

"We?" Ron asked gruffly, his brows raised curiously, that smirk pulling at the corners of his lips again.

"I can't very well let you hurt yourself up here, can I? You said it yourself - you've got your subjects to consider."

That excuse was right flimsy, and they both knew it, but Ron wasn't about to complain about some extra alone time with Hermione.

"Right, no…good idea. Go on and tell them to crack on without us." Hermione turned to go, but Ron cleared his throat before she did, prompting her to turn around.

"And when you get back here, d'you think you could use one of those weight-altering charms for me? I can't pull them off properly as you can." He glanced at the light, ten-pound dumbbells off to the side. "I just don't think they're doing the trick for me anymore. I'll need 'em heavier if I'm going to make any progress. You understand."

Hermione wordlessly nodded - rather eagerly, unless Ron was utterly bonkers and seeing things - and flitted off to encourage the others to go on.

Smiling like an utter git, Ron waited until he heard Hermione's footsteps far enough away before hurriedly stripping out of his sweater. He was left in nothing but a plain white tank top and his pants.

Hermione obviously liked looking at him, so why not give her something to bloody look at, right?