Chapter 6

They stared at each other, both shocked speechless. Before he could think too much, Ron replied, "Me too."

Hermione smiled weakly. "You've never fancied Viktor, either?"

He grinned at her, and her smile widened.

"I lo-love you too. I wanted to tell you, in the kitchen, but . . . you were bloody fantastic."

She blushed, tucking her hair behind her ear. It sprang back.

"It's not true, what you said about fourth year—I've never thought you were ugly. I wanted to ask you to the ball, but I was afraid you'd say you wanted to go with Harry. I knew perfectly well why Krum fancied you, but he already had everything else I'd ever wanted, the wealth and the fame and the talent, and then he had to go and take you, too. I was angry with myself for not asking you first, and angry with him for choosing you, and angry with you for saying yes.

"I didn't want anyone to know I fancied my best friend, so I made up that stuff about asking the best-looking witch and Krum hanging around you to win the Championship. I used to picture you two, secretly snogging in the library, and when Ginny said that—she just wouldn't shut it, and Harry was standing right there. It brought all those awful feelings back, and I reckoned you'd just asked me to Slughorn's party because you felt sorry for me. Then we rowed after the Slytherin match, and Lavender—well, she seemed like the perfect opportunity."

Ron swallowed. Hermione was studying him, brown eyes wide.

"At first I wanted to hurt you like I'd been hurt, but I didn't think it through, and I was really sorry really fast, but I couldn't get you to talk to me. I missed you—I really missed you, I wrote you a dozen letters over Christmas, but I was too much of a coward to send even one."

"I'm sorry, too," Hermione whispered. "I knew you were trying to make up with me, but I was too proud to give in, and then on your birthday—"

Fresh tears welled in her eyes, and he awkwardly brushed them away.

"I realized I had been a complete fool. I know the reality of this war better than most and I was still wasting time with childish spats instead of focusing on love and friendship."

She was standing in the circle of his embrace now, and looked up at him seriously. "I don't want to waste any more time, Ron, that's why—"

She blushed again, and he knew exactly what she meant.

"You didn't listen to me this afternoon, when you asked to—go upstairs." Ron felt her stiffen and held fast as she tried to pull away. "It's not that I didn't want to—Merlin, Hermione, you have to know how badly I wanted you—how much I still want you—it's just . . . not now. Not like that, in a bed that's barely big enough for me, with all Harry's crap around, and the Cannons staring down at us, and—"

He felt her shaking and crossed his arms. "What's so bloody funny?"

"The Cannons?" she asked, laughing. "You expect me to believe in the heat of the moment, you worried about what your Quidditch posters would think?"

"Hermione, I've spent the better part of three years picturing you naked in my bed. It was hardly a split-second decision."

He had? Pictured her? Naked? In his bed? More than once, as if he liked the image? Gobsmacked, Hermione stared as Ron sank down against the shed. But three years . . . that would be . . . but she thought . . . before the Yule Ball?

She sat down beside him. "So if it wasn't Neville, how did you find out I was a girl?"

Ron was quiet for a long time.

"I'd noticed before, but the time I couldn't ignore was at the World Cup. Harry and I were coming back from visiting Seamus and Dean after the match and you were changing clothes. It had gotten dark, and you had the lamps lit, and the tent . . . ."

He trailed off, but Hermione understood. In the dark, backlit by the lamplight, her form would have cast a shadow on the canvas wall of the tent as clearly as a movie on-screen. Ron had watched her undress, and Hermione was surprised to realize she wasn't upset, or angry, or embarrassed. What exactly was this fluttery feeling?

"Pleasedontbemad," he pleaded.

"I'm not mad. I would've been then, I'm sure, and maybe I should be still, but," she shrugged, hoping he would continue.

"You were beautiful. Ginny was already changed, thankfully, but you had just taken your shirt off. You were standing next to the bunks, in profile, and I could see—well," he swallowed, "a lot more of you than I ever did in school robes. You reached up and undid your hair. I'd never seen you do that before. I mean, I'd seen you with it down, but I couldn't remember seeing you take it down, and the way you moved—it was the most graceful, feminine thing I'd ever seen." He paused, remembering. "Until you unbuttoned your jeans and slid them off with this—" he wiggled his hands in the air "—this shimmying motion, and I still think that was the sexiest thing I've ever seen." He shot her a nervous, sideways look.

Ron thought she was feminine? And sexy? That fluttery feeling just behind her navel—it was pleasure; pure, unadulterated delight. She turned to get a better look at his face, but he was turned away from her. She reached for his hand, feeling guilty for laughing.

"We could have taken them down. And I could charm your bed big enough for both of us."

Ron groaned under his breath. "We could've." He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "But you deserve everything, roses and candlelight and wine. And there would still be Voldemort, and the Horcruxes. We said we would help Harry, and if we have the slightest chance of succeeding, it will be because we work together, all three of us. We can't afford to be distracted, not even by each other.

"Besides," his thumb still stroked back and forth, "there's no way I could be with you like that, and then . . . not. We don't know where we're going to be, or what we're going to be doing, but I'm pretty sure we'll be living on top of each other. You deserve better than that."

Hermione thought she finally understood. "A girl like me?"

Ron bumped her shoulder. "Know-it-all."

"Your know-it-all."

He smiled and nuzzled her hair. "I like the sound of that."

"Ron?"

"Hmm?"

"What if something goes wrong?"

She had been worrying about this for months, ever since Harry had told them about the Horcruxes. It was why she had determined to tell Ron how she felt, why she had been so bold in the kitchen. She wanted no regrets.

"What if we don't get another chance, if—if this is all there is?"

Ron sat up and faced her. "This is not all there is for us, Hermione," he said fiercely. "Isn't that why we're fighting? Sure, we're doing it for Harry, but aren't we really in this because we want a better world, because we want our lives to be free from worries about evil and blood status and war? You," he pushed her hair away from her face, "you're in so much danger just because of who your parents are, because of something you can't control or change. Nobody should have to live like that. Harry's going to see to it, and we're going to help him. Nothing's going to go wrong—at least, not that badly wrong. We're going to stick together and destroy that bloody bastard for good this time, because when it's all over—when it's all over, I get a chance with you. I'm going to make sure we get that chance, Hermione."

Hermione held his gaze and hoped hers reflected everything she read in Ron's: all the love, all the promise, all the certainty.

"So . . . after the war?"

"After the war," he promised, and slipped his free hand behind her neck. "And just one more time . . . ."

Hermione closed her eyes and decided it wasn't bad at all, being a girl like her.

a/n: That's all, folks! Thanks so much to everyone who has followed this story, favorited, and especially those who have reviewed; it's been so encouraging to have one of my first stories so well-received! I have a Harry/Ginny companion piece that I plan to post this weekend, and many other ideas in the works. I hope you will continue to read and enjoy!

keeptheotherone