A/N: Wrote this short and sweet fic in two days after writer's block kept me from working on all the other drafts I've got. This is set in a Muggle!AU but can probably be set in the normal HP universe if you so wish, you just gotta imagine they aren't coping with the after effects of the war at this point. Title comes from the first lines of, as seemed appropriate, Granger Danger from A Very Potter Musical. Please enjoy!

They walk back to Hermione's flat with Ron's tie crooked, Hermione's necklace lost, and with an exhausted air. They stop at the door.

Ron is too defeated to even crack a joke. Morosely, he stares at Hermione opening her door and says, "That wasn't what I wanted tonight to be, you know. I didn't try to bollocks it all up."

"Well," Hermione says, "That hardly matters at all now, does it?"

"I should go."

A sigh. Hermione flicks the switch on and, surprisingly, she says, "Just come in."

Ron takes a look at the eyebags that she tried so hard to hide with her make up, her untameable curls that escaped her bun, and the way she falters ever so slightly by the doorframe. How could he ever deny her anything after that? he thinks, and steps inside.

Hermione is already preparing a kettle. "Suppose you might want some tea," she calls out. "Sit yourself on the sofa, I'll join you in a few."

Obediently, Ron slumps.

He hasn't ever been here before, he slowly realizes. They've all spent countless summers and christmases at the burrow and at school, Hermione's sneaked into his and Harry's dorm room more often than not. It's a realization that weighs heavy on his heart, all of a sudden; even after seven years of friendship, he doesn't know much about Hermione after all.

The girl herself suddenly steps into the living room. "Can you keep an eye on the tea for me? I need to change clothes," she says.

Ron flushes embarrasedly, remembering the red wine he accidentally spilled on the front of her dress. "Yeah, no problem with that."

Hermione flashes him a small smile and disappears into her room.

"If she could see me now," Ron mumbles. His chest is tight, and his eyes prick with tears that he angrily wipes away. "She'd laugh, poor Weasley."

Heaving a great sigh, Ron unbuttons the top of his dress shirt and loosens the tie around his neck before he, inevitably, crumples over himself and digs his fingers into his palm hard enough for it to start bleeding.

This was supposed to be a good night, he thinks. He's been obsessively calling the restaurant for a week now to make sure he got the reservations right, and he's even managed to scrounge up enough pounds to cover their dinner. He, Harry, and Ginny took the time to find him a nice suit to wear for the occasion, and when he forgot to get new shoes, Dean was happy to let him borrow a pair. Fred and George ribbed him as soon as they found out, but had discretely given him an exclusive version of the pomade they were selling to make sure his hair looked just right. His mum fussed and his dad grinned at him until he left the house with shaky confidence, somehow feeling that things would definitely go right for them this evening.

It was a simple enough agenda: take Hermione out to dinner, have a good time, walk her home, and hopefully end the night with the confirmation of a second date.

But Ron's botched that up, of course. He's not done much else.

So instead of snogging themselves silly on the sofa as he'd hoped, he is left alone while Hermione is undoubtedly already purging herself of even the slightest thought of it. Ron closes his eyes and, as vividly as he can allow himself, imagines her mouth twist in both disgust and disappointment as she throws her dress at either her laundry basket or the bin, and her weary expression as she wipes off the make-up that the rain hadn't managed to ruin, and her calloused hands as they reach behind her neck, out of habit, to unclasp a necklace that probably now lies forgotten on cobblestone roads struck heavy with London rain.

The kettle whistles and, needing a distraction, he stands up with a grunt. He turns the stove off and reaches up for the cabinets above it, finding a porcelain tea set adorned with English flowers. He grabs sugar and tea bags from the countertop and, almost on autopilot, prepares bread and butter and searing hot pan.

There's a tin of biscuits that he pointedly ignores as he pours hot water into the tea cups. He toasts his bread and throws himself into it, as menial and familiar as it was, trying to pinpoint the moment it shifts from fluffy white to a crunchy golden-brown.

A chair creaks as it slides on the floor, and he turns to find Hermione, hair still wet, softly smiling at him.

"Um," Ron elegantly says. "I got hungry?"

"Of course you did," she says, with a hint of what he hopes is affection and not just amusement. "I wouldn't have taken so long in the bath if you could've just told me, you know."

He snorts, and turns back to the stove. "Brilliant, we'd be eating burnt toast instead then." With a satisfying crunch, he bites into one of the finished toast and gestures at Hermione to do the same.

She does. After gulping down a mouthful of toast, she says, "I could do about the same thing, I'm very sure I could learn; I once read an article saying that bread is the foundation that which all food rests upon."

"Of course you did," he teases, and the way she blushes pink has him unable to look her in the eyes for any longer. His ears are burning red, he knows, so he takes extra effort into the next piece of toast and hopes that she doesn't notice the way his hands shake.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Hermione take a cautious sip of her hot tea before blooming into a wide, if surprised, grin. She lets out a small sigh of contentment and he lets himself relax. This can be salvageable, he thinks. She doesn't seem to be in any inclination to throw him out of her flat any time soon, so he allows himself to hum softly as he takes a jar of strawberry jam from the fridge.

"I hope you didn't have a hard time finding everything," Hermione says.

"Well," Ron says, "I think I've known you long enough to figure out where you usually like keeping your things."

She makes a small sound of confusion that makes him chuckle. "I haven't brought you here before."

Ron simply shrugs, and before he can stop himself, he says: "I know you."

Silence befalls them, and he is too mortified by his words to turn back and look at her. How do you react to someone who's basically confessed that he's watched her every single move? That for over seven years, he's seen and compiled the way she twirls happily when she's wearing a pretty dress, or the song she always listens to when she needs to focus on her studies, or the breakfast she likes most after a weekend bender? A friendship like theirs didn't leave much room for privacy, tight-knit and strongly bonded as they were, and at base instinct Ron knew Harry as Harry knew him, and the same was for Hermione and Harry, and the same was for Hermione and Ron.

The only difference is that Ron went and fell in love with her.

Ron stumbles over his words in an attempt to gain his bearings. "Well, you know I do, don't you? Be a bit of a rubbish friend if I didn't, and an even worse suitor. N-not that I'm trying to court you, of course! Except maybe I am, or, well, maybe I was when the night started, I'm not so sure if you'd let me after that —

"Oh," he groans. "I'm such a sodding prick, Hermione. I haven't even, bloody hell, I haven't even said sorry for what happened tonight. You know what, you don't deserve this, you deserve someone better, you deserve —"

Too engrossed in his own blabbering, Ron doesn't notice Hermione sneak up on him and and gently, tentatively, like she's afraid he'd shatter at the slightest touch, wrap her arms around his waist.

His knees go weak. His heart thumps loudly. He is powerless when Hermione turns him around to face her, and he feels nothing but sincere and grateful devotion to this girl who's tried her best to stand by him through thick and thin, even when he let his cowardice and jealousy get the best of him. His breath stutters when she reaches out to hold his quivering hands, and she does nothing but smile.

She looks at him straight in the eyes when she says, "I love you."

And his world stops.

"Um," Ron elegantly says. "Sure."

Despite his stupidity, Hermione's eyes crinkle with mirth. "You dolt," she laughs, "This is the part where you say it back to me."

"Brilliant," he retorts, out of a loss for words. "Haven't even asked you out yet and already the whole relationship is scripted. Tell me, how much have you already planned out?"

She holds him closer. "You wanna find out?" she asks, and he smiles. How could he ever deny her anything after that?