"In the dark

finding out

who we are"

She creeps into his room, slowly makes her way to his bed side. He is muttering and switching his position and she breathes his name into his ear. His electric blue eyes shoot open, his fringe pushed from his view.

"Hermione?" He croaks into the darkness, and she slowly slides out of her robe.

"You're not sleeping well like that, tossing and turning. I do the same thing."

He figures he shouldn't be looking at her in that too-small nightgown that doesn't cover all it should, that he shouldn't be seeing these inches of Hermione's skin she tries so hard to hide. So he watches her feet, petite little things that shine in the moonlight and come closer before she slips between his covers. He gives her as much room as she needs and the two fall to sleep.

It happens again the next night, though nothing had been spoken by either of them about the arrangement. Bruises now adorn places on their body where they continue restless sleep, but one night she awakes with no sore spots - finding instead his arm draped over her torso. So they hold onto one another as they sleep and the bruises dissapear.

There's this unspoken akwardness between them whilst they avoid conversing their nightly activities but try to keep them from coming to light. Ginny's suspicious, the twins are suspicious, but luck shines down on the two as no one learns of it.

One night she whispers confessions into his chest, covered in the material of a t-shirt stretched so far the seams threaten to burst. He tells her not to worry, that Harry is fine and her homework is fine and her mum is fine and his mum is fine.

The next he whispers confessions into her hair, such a wild mass of chestnut curls diluted in the darkness of the night-filled room. She tells him not to fret, that the Cannons may when this game and Charlie is safe and their army is steadfast and strong.

So they converse on nights when unrest haunts them, converse before sleep takes over their teenage minds. One can poison the other's fears til they shrink to nothingness. On can repair such battered pieces of the other that they regain their feelings of being human.

He asks her why she can't be more like chess, she asks how she's different. She's logical like chess, and there are many ways to go about looking at her but indefinatly you are happy or sad at the outcome. You must be constantly alert of the moves that can be made.

She asks him why he can't be more like books, he asks how he's different. He's dependable like books, there is one language you can read him in but emotionally its up to you as a person to decide your opinion of him. You may speculate on the outcome and dependant on what kind of reader you are, you're either suprised or subdued.

He wishes he could understand her like he understands chess; she wishes she could understand him like she understands books. They wish they both could understand why this way that they intertwine when the lights are out is so comfortable. But wishing is merely a quiet way to spend lonely time gazing at a starry sky.

The Hogwarts breakfast is reheated with heating charms so that it doesn't get cold, but it's been a good thirty minutes since Ron was supposed to be at the table. He slides into his seat by Hermione and apologizes for his timing.

His yawn shines truth on his excuse of oversleeping, and Harry takes no notice as Ron's weary eyes lock on Hermione's that edge equal lack of rest.

Nothing gold can stay.


Author's note: ::gasp:: it's not a Blackfic! ugh I'm very pissed. I wrote this entire thing that I abso-bloody-lutely loved, and then I went retarded and did something and it all went down the tubes. Agh. Err credits - this idea was somewhat kindof sortof inspired by a Menage-A-Trio ficlet on Astronomy Tower, but I toned it down a bit (er, alot) and took out Harry and changed it. So, not really set like that but ... that's what got the idea in my head. My favorite way of writing is repeating structure and there's lots of that in this, yay. I haven't written Ron/Hermione in a-g-e-s. Forever. Haven't ever read a good one. EVER. Need one! Hah. Erm, I wanted to up the ante on this fic and have the rating sky rocket, but I decided against it. Keepin' it in the PG range. At least I hope so. I'm so spaztic about having my account deleted for a mis-rating so .... please ::crosses fingers:: let this be appropriatly PG. The song at the beginning is my favorite Michelle Branch song, Tuesday Morning. The quote at the end is a Robert Frost poem.

Review, please!