Shock

by Sure of Sun

Summary: Set during HBP. Ron figures he and Hermione have just about the perfect relationship. He hopes he isn't wrong. RHr

Author's Note: I think this fits with the whole anger thing Ron had before he snagged dearest Lav-Lav. (:

He's sort of impressed by how she can deflect even the most lighthearted of their conversations and twist it into a long-winded lecture.

'Sort of' being the key term.

Generally, she jumps into a tirade about how he could do so much better with his potential but how he just...wastes it with his positively ridiculous naps and late-night wizarding chess games. (He has come to think she's a bit jealous, but knows better than to say anything. Except that one time second year, after which his tongue was stuck to the table for an hour until Harry took pity and fetched Percy.)

"Honestly, Ron, if you just woke up once in a while, you might be able to write your own essays!" she says, trying to be cross, ignoring how very adorable he looks with his legs and arms all askance in the armchair by the fire. She writes out a conclusion impeccable penmanship, looking up every so often as if to say I do not like this one bit, Ron Weasley, but I'm doing it because I don't want you to fail; you ought to be ashamed of yourself--when are you ever going to learn?

At least, he has to be impressed because otherwise he'd be peeved out of his mind.

He guesses being infuriating is her specialty. She always complains that it is he who is irritating beyond all reason, but that just isn't true. She just takes everything too seriously. Come to think of it, she's always shirty about something. And she talks a lot. All the bloody time. But he doesn't really care what point she's making, so long as she's sitting near him, her voice caressing his ears, their eyes meeting every few moments as he pretends not to love her.

Uh oh, she's giving him that look. Not the furious You-Stupid-Excuse-For-A-Human-Being look. The frigid I'm-Not-Speaking-to-You-Ever-Again look.

"Er...come again?" He assumes she has just asked him a question.

"Don't be thick, Ron! Honestly!" Hermione drops the quill and shoves her chair aside. Apparently now she's going to walk away. Good riddance. Doesn't she know that he's always thinking about her? He's pretty sure that if she knew what he was thinking two seconds ago she might not be so keen to get angry.

Hermione shoots one last scathing glare at him and storms away, hair flinging in her face. She rips it out of her eyes and keeps walking.

Ron yawns, avoiding the stares of his fellow Gryffindors. He knows the drill.

She'll go upstairs and sit there, barking and huffing at her bunkmates, and they'll all roll their eyes and tell her she's bloody insane and incorrigible and she and Ron should go get married and make lots of bushy-haired redheads already.

And she'll treat them to a blistering harangue about how inconsiderate he is, how absolutely and completely terrible.

But she'll come downstairs in a few minutes to help him finish his essay, which is due tomorrow. Because she can't possibly let him finish on his own. Because he'd fail without her.

And because she loves him. She practically asked him to Slugthorn's party, didn't she? He stretches out in the armchair and relaxes in its embrace. He and Hermione were made for each other. He's never once looked at another girl after her (he has conveniently forgotten about Madam Rosmerta and Fleur).

Which is why it's such a shock, a few hours later, when he finds out that she once snogged Viktor Krum.