A/N: This was originally written for the Sinfully Romione Fest on Tumblr in the Wrath category! Enjoy!

one.

Merlin, she's insufferable. As if it isn't enough that she seems to always pop up when she's least needed, like when he and Harry are on their way to a midnight duel with Malfoy (not that anything came of that, but still) or turning up on the train to tell him he's got dirt on her nose. This girl is everywhere, there when he's not ready for her, there with her bushy hair and impossibly bossy voice and an attitude that could fill the Great Hall, and of course, of course he gets paired up with her and not Harry, or Seamus, or even Lavender Brown.

"You're saying it wrong," she tells him haughtily, and he tries his best to be polite and not roll his eyes. So he's not as good at magic as his brothers or Professor Flitwick over there or even Harry. She doesn't have be so rude about it, she doesn't have to make him feel like he's something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. The heat rises in his face and he can't believe it, but he sort of wants to break something. Normally he has a better grasp on his temper, and this is just school, after all, but she's just so unlike anyone he's ever met before.

"You do it then," he snaps when she's finishing detailing every little thing he did wrong in his attempt at levitating a feather, "if you're so clever."

And of course she does it perfectly, because, like she just had to tell them on the train, she already memorized all of her textbooks (not even Percy did that!), and Professor Flitwick is beside himself with praise for her. Ron wishes he were anywhere but here.

On the way out of class, he starts venting to Harry about it, knowing if anyone will understand, it's him. "She's a nightmare, honestly," and he's about to keep prattling on but Harry gets jostled as a small figure knocks into him and scurries away - a small figure, of course, with bushy hair and a rucksack packed with books.

His heart sinks; he didn't want to be mean right back.

two.

Ron's heart leaps into his throat as the words escape Malfoy's lips: "filthy little Mudblood." Suddenly it's like his entire body is shaking because he knows that the Malfoys are terrible people, he knows that their families have entirely different views on how a pureblood wizard should conduct oneself and who to consort with and who, apparently, to fire disgusting insults at over what should have been a normal Quidditch practice. He remembers talking with his dad over Ginger Newts when he was seven years old because someone in Diagon Alley had called his parents blood-traitors and later he wanted to know what it meant. He remembers Dad, of course, in his own laid-back way, explaining that some wizards felt they were superior to others just because of their bloodline and how it was an awful way to see the world and how all human lives were worth just the same, and it was only by sheer coincidence that the Weasleys had stayed pureblood as long as they had.

And he thinks about it now, and how that tosser Draco Malfoy has just called Hermione the very worst thing he could possibly think of, and suddenly his hands are plunging into his robes. Ron knows it's stupid, since his wand hasn't been worth a damn since school started but he can't just stand there and let this happen. Hermione's his best friend (after Harry) and she's better at magic than all of them combined and he just can't let Malfoy get away with it.

The hex he thinks of is one he heard Fred and George discussing over the summer and as he points his wand at Malfoy, he's not even sure it has a name and it's probably - okay, definitely - not taught at Hogwarts but it'll sure teach the git a lesson. Just as Ron's about to speak the words, a jet of green light fires backwards into his stomach and sends him flying on the pitch. All the Slytherins are laughing and taunting him, jeering at poor blood traitor Weasley with his hand-me-down robes and broken wand, as Harry and Hermione rush over to check on him.

He spends the rest of the afternoon burping up slugs in Hagrid's hunt and explaining to Harry just why that word is so repulsive and knowing that this isn't the end.

three.

Lovely. Just what everyone needs, a double dose of Severus Snape; Ron is repulsed as he walks into Defense Against The Dark Arts, which he's actually been enjoying this year, to see the greasiest professor to grace the corridors of Hogwarts behind the desk. And what's he playing at, anyway, deciding to start the chapter on werewolves when they were just about to start the chapter on hinkypunks? Surely Professor Lupin wasn't in such a bad way that he couldn't leave a quick note on the desk about what everyone was learning, even though that's Snape's story. Though Ron supposes that even if he had, Snape wouldn't bother to check for it.

Snape is extra Snape-like today, too, probably because he's so excited to finally be teaching his favorite subject; he snipes at the group for no reason and deducts points from Gryffindor because Harry asked one question. Hermione's being so Hermione about it, trying to tell Snape where they've left off, and of course he won't hear a word of it and barks at them all to turn to page three-hundred ninety-four. Ron resigns himself to it, flipping through his textbook and wishing he had a way to speed up time. Professor Lupin had better get healthy quick, because Ron's not sure he can tolerate this for the rest of the year.

As always, Hermione's the only one even trying to answer questions, even though Snape's looking at her like it enrages him that she's daring to raise her hand in his class. Why even bother, then? Why even pretend to teach them?

"Please, sir," she's saying calmly, ever the prepared one in class, the one who already read the entire book and the one who's actually trying to salvage this wasted lesson (Ron has started to doodle a mustache and glasses on the drawing of a werewolf in the book), but Snape cuts her off and begins berating her for speaking out of turn.

"Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all," he declares, and Ron's head snaps up. He's not the only one shooting daggers with their eyes - the whole class looks ready to pounce - but his hands curl into fists as Hermione's eyes lower to her desk and well up.

How dare he? How dare he?! He's supposed to be their teacher, and the one person in class who's actually trying to learn, he insults her? And it feels different, somehow, than all the times Ron has called her a know-it-all over Transfiguration essays because she knows that he's her friend, that he actually thinks she's completely brilliant. It's never barbed like that, he never says it just because he wants her to shut up, and the words are erupting from his lips before he knows what's happening.

"You asked us a question and she knows the answer!" he blurts out, noticing Hermione furiously blinking back tears. "Why ask if you don't want to be told?"

It happens so fast: suddenly he has an up close and personal view of one Severus Snape, whose dark eyes glisten with vindictive glee. "Detention, Weasley."

Worth it, Ron decides as he's scrubbing out bedpans the Muggle way in the hospital wing later that night. Totally worth it.

four.

Stupid Viktor Krum. Who does this bloke think he is, anyway? He just shows up to Hogwarts, his name comes flying out of the Goblet of Fire and now it's like everyone can't get enough of him. Everyone, apparently, including Hermione, who's deemed it necessary to not only come as his date but to dance up a storm with him all night. Just because he's the most talented Seeker in the world, just because every witch in the castle has been fawning all over him for months, just because his dress robes probably cost more than Ron's dad earns in a year, it doesn't mean he's worth going to this ruddy ball with.

Hermione looks so happy with him too, it's sickening, he actually spins her around at one point during a fast song and they're both laughing and Ron feels a heavy weight drop into his stomach. She isn't supposed to here having fun with Viktor Krum, what would they even have in common, anyway? Hermione's the smartest person Ron's ever met but she doesn't know the first thing about Quidditch. They can't possibly have anything to talk about.

Padma Patil has long since given up on any hopes of Ron being a decent date and he really doesn't care. He only wanted to go to this stupid thing in the first place because Harry's required to go and he figured that if he, Ron, had to bring a date, well, Hermione made sense, didn't she? Except, he always felt a bit funny about asking her, and then when he managed to - when Fred scared sense into him - he went about it in maybe not the smoothest way, and now she's here with Viktor bloody Krum. It's like she's here with his, Ron's, exact opposite, and the thought sets his insides on fire.

It feels like hours, but the damned ball actually comes to an end and Ron stomps off to the common room with the sole intention of never thinking about this night again, but Hermione's there when he steps through the portrait hole, and she must not like his terse greeting because soon enough they're screaming at each other. Her hair is falling out of its elegant knot and her face is twisted up in anger and as her words fly across the common room, Ron finds himself rendered speechless.

"Next time there's a ball," she tells him furiously, ignoring that Harry has just stepped into the common room and is shell-shocked and watching them, "ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!"

He can do nothing but sputter uselessly at her as she whirls off toward the stairs to the girls' dormitory. She wouldn't have actually wanted to go with him, would she? She's just mad, she's just saying things… right?

Or had he missed his chance?

five.

It's his third stay in the hospital wing, but he's still more accustomed to being a visitor rather than a patient, and it feels strange to sleep here surrounded by his friends, and even stranger to sleep in the same room as Hermione. She's in the bed next to him, snoring just a little bit from the strength of the pain relief and sleeping potions she's been given. The whole room is quiet and Ron's mind is just racing because it all feels like it's his fault and he wants to throttle himself for being so stupid. Why, why did he have to get himself hit by that ridiculous curse, the one that turned him into a giggling mess, into the sort of imbecile that summons bewitched brains out of tanks and nearly gets himself strangled to death with them. He was trying to protect Ginny and Luna by running behind them, but he should have insisted they follow Harry.

If he ever gets his hands on Dolohov… he can feel them shaking now, even though his arms still feel a little weak from the deep grooves that the brains left in his skin. He can't believe he let her down, he's supposed to be the one in their trio that protects the other two. They're his best friends in the world, he's supposed to look out for them, and instead he may well have been sloshed on Firewhisky for all the good he did. Somehow this always ends up happening, somehow he keeps trying to do the right thing but he messes it up somehow, and apparently being Gryffindor's unlikely prefect hasn't changed his propensity for letting Hermione down. If he'd been coherent he could have jumped in front of that curse, taken it for her, or taken Dolohov down before he even had the chance but all he'd been was dead weight, distracted, a burden.

Hermione rolls over in her sleep, now facing him, and the sight of her peaceful features sends another wave of self-loathing over him. She's okay, but it's not because of him, and while his heart pounds in his chest, its thrumming the only thing he can hear in the quiet hospital wing, he resolves to do better.

six.

"You were brilliant tonight, Ron," Lavender coos, gazing up at him, her hands wrapped around his bicep.

"Er, thanks," he replies, feeling as though he's the furthest thing from brilliant, but if she thinks so, he's going to let her. At least Lavender doesn't believe that he can only play well if he's hopped up on lucky potion, she actually seems to think the sun shines out of his ass and it makes for a nice change from Hermione's utter lack of faith. Unlike Hermione, Lavender doesn't invite him to Christmas parties solely out of pity (because it must have been pity and nothing more, right, if Hermione's the sort of girl who can land Viktor Krum) and she doesn't constantly critique him; she actually seems to like him.

He scans the room and he doesn't see Hermione's wild mane of hair anywhere, not that he wants to. He thinks back to how she'd acted in the locker room, how she'd been furious with Harry for slipping Ron the potion and then so incredibly stunned when she found out that he'd tricked everyone, that he hadn't used any of the potion at all, that it was he, Ron, who had saved all those goals. Of course she wouldn't have known, right, that he wasn't always completely rubbish at Quidditch because last year she'd actually missed the one match in which he played decently. Not that he'd measure up to Viktor Krum, anyway.

"So," he says as he turns to Lavender, about to ask her which Quidditch team she supports (and as long as she doesn't say Tutshill, it's fine) when her lips smash firmly against his and he feels like the wind is knocked out of him. He tries, after one stunned instant in which he becomes acutely aware that there's about fifty people staring at them, to kiss her back, but it's all just some messy tangle of lips and teeth and tongue and he hasn't the foggiest clue what he's doing and he really doesn't care because, he realizes with a fresh wave of self-loathing, this is not who he really wants to kiss at all.

Ron pulls back for a second and uses the back of his hand to wipe the lip gloss from his mouth (it tastes like strawberries, though, so at least there's that) as he spots the portrait hole swinging shut. Hermione still isn't here, not that it surprises him that she's gone. She always chooses to think the worst of him, never wants to believe in him, always sides with everyone else.

And it's not like she'd rather he kiss her instead, anyway.

seven.

He's going to explode out of his skin. This is a rage, a fury, an all-encompassing fear that he's never felt before, and despite what they say about Gryffindors, Ron definitely gets scared sometimes but it's never like this, it's never made him like this but nothing has ever been this bad. This is his worst nightmare come to life and he's stuck here, he's just stuck and there's nothing he can do but he's still going to try everything. He's going to try to Apparate without a wand (he's heard it can be done, but it's difficult and it's risky, he could end up splinching himself into a thousand little pieces but he's still got to try), he's going to pound on these walls because this is not happening again, he will not be some useless bystander while Hermione gets hurt. He still hates himself for walking out on them and he's got to make it up to them, to her. He promised himself years ago that he will always protect her and he will, he has to, even with tears of anger and terror dripping through the grime and blood on his face.

She screams and he screams back, unable to help it, she has to know that he's at least here, that he cares, that he hasn't given up on her, that he won't. And if he can get to her, there's no telling what he'll do. He'll probably kill someone and they'll probably deserve it, everyone up in that drawing room deserves to be torn limb from limb, and he'll do it himself if he has to. It's all he can think about: get to Hermione, get her to safety, destroy Bellatrix Lestrange, destroy the Malfoys.

It takes a miracle involving a house elf, a silver hand that turns on its owner, a decent impression of said silver-hand owner, and Harry stupefying Death Eaters with two wands at once, but they get away. Ron lands on his knees in the pebbled sand outside of his eldest brother's house with Hermione, limp and unconscious and bleeding, on his lap. He presses his fingertips to her neck and oh, thank Merlin, she has a pulse, it's weak but it's there, and so he hoists her skinny frame into his arms and carries her to the house. She comes to after a few minutes and is well enough to attend Dobby's funeral; Ron wraps his arm around her shoulders to support her, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts.

The night has sparked an incredible fury in him, but now it's fury laced with determination, it isn't frantic anymore. He can take it now and channel it and use it as his driving force. He's no longer the insecure little boy who was annoyed because the girl sitting next to him in class was better at a spell than he was and wanted to make sure he knew it. Okay, he'll admit that the insecurity is still there, sometimes, but he's a man now. He's grown up these past seven years and now his anger isn't petty or laced with jealousy or self-hatred, it's focused. He can't believe this is the world he lives in, and he can't let it go on, he won't let this world try to stomp on the person who makes him happiest, who amazes him daily with her brilliance, who means more to him than anything.

They have to win this war; there's no other way.

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