J. K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.

You know how they say that good things come in small packages?

Most people don't believe this, or they take it for granted that they do.

I believe this.

It's nearly funny how I felt happier at that one moment than when we survived after the department of mysteries, or when the death eaters came and killed Dumbledore.

I was taking a break after lunch, lying down on the grass near our tent.

We were running from Voldemort at the time.

I was watching the clouds slowly crawl across the sky, and the sun was a little too bright for my eyes.

I felt the lightest pressure on the corner of my arm, my elbow.

I turned my head slightly to see Ron casually lying beside me.

His hand on my arm.

I knew he was about to say something about Harry, or the horcruxes, or maybe his family.

But that one moment outshined everything else, and it was pure bliss.

"Hermione," he whispered gently, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear.

"Ron," I replied.

That memory was the one I thought of everytime I did my patronus, from then on.

It was never a hard spell for me ever again.

All because of him.

Ron.