Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, etc…here borrowed for non-profit, purely entertainment reasons.
Author's Notes: In a bit of a one-shot mood, apparently. Oh, and, isn't it lovely how we girls like to analyze every little thing until we go crazy? Well…I think so any way… This was written, not only because the idea wouldn't leave me alone, but also because there seems to be a lack of humorous fics from Hermione's point of view. Just because she's brilliant doesn't mean she can't be stupid, right?
Second Author's Notes of December, 2004: If you happen to notice any similarities between this fic and another, six chapter-ed fic of somebody who had the gall to review me and deny all copying, please take note that it is not me who is guilty of plagiarism. My fic was posted first, and it troubles me that I must write this to clarify any accusatory confusion.
Her body has grown accustomed to the quirks of his. And not in the way she would have liked. Her Brilliant Mind was at a loss when it came to explaining the recent changes.
Her hand itched after finishing her notes. It tingled with impatience, the singular appendage fairly trembling with the lack of closure.
Make another copy, her mind whispered. Ron will need them.
Her short, tired legs now walked with a quick, bone jarring pace, even when Hermione wasn't all that eager to reach the lavatories. Why, Hermione would wonder as she panted in her stall. Why had she raced?
Because, her legs would reply matter-of-factly, we always walk that fast, to keep up with Ron's long strides.
Damn him, damn him, damn him.
Neville sat next to her this morning, wolfing down his meal as if he hadn't committed the ultimate sin of taking Ron's place. Hermione felt oddly at loss, despite the fact that Harry was just to her right. She could not eat—the simplest of tasks!—for she was left feeling strangely alone, bizarrely large, and utterly confused.
Later, when she visited the flu-suffering Ron in the hospital wing, she remembered. His right elbow always jabbed into her left arm in the mornings, reminding her to stay in her designated breakfasting space. Reminding her that she always had to make sure that he did not hide his eggs under the muffins just because he didn't like the way the house elves prepared them this year. Reminding her that he would always be at her side.
Damn him, damn him, damn…well, maybe he wasn't to blame too much…
Her hand shot out and landed on Ron's chest as the trio ambled down the hall way. She had to restrain him, she simply had to! What with Draco and his gaggle of idiots coming this way, and Ron and his temper…
Er…oops. They hadn't exchanged the belligerent words yet, had they?
And, further more…oops again. She hadn't removed her hand from his chest, yet, had she?
"You're a lovely girl, Hermione, but at least buy me dinner before molesting me," he told her with a smile. Harry suggested that maybe Hermione found the Weasley irresistible.
Hermione agreed with him, if his definition of "irresistible" was close to her definition of "repugnant." Then Draco arrived, blinding and billowing, and all her embarrassment subsided.
Damn him, damn him, damn his cute freckles…
He seemed to notice her a bit more often. In his loudest and probably most unflattering voice, he verbally remarked on her scowls (stop frowning, I swear I haven't done anything wrong, Hermione!), and her pinched mouth (have you eaten something disgusting, Hermione?), and her stomping, quick, angry footsteps (are there spiders, Hermione? Please don't tell me there are spiders!) With the reason of "being concerned," he asked her frequently why all were occurring.
And she couldn't say she glared because her body had grown to know his. And she couldn't say her lips tightened because her eyes love his freckles. And she couldn't say she stomped around angrily because he was the only boy she would ever love.
Because, really, while a girl may not have an explanation for her tastes, a girl did have her pride.
"Because you are seventeen years old and I still have to act as your mother!" seemed like a plausible, mature, and No-I-don't-love-you-don't-be-daft sort of response, so she delivered it and raced to her room.
Damn his ocean blue eyes, damn his cute freckles, damn his…
"I don't need them," Ron announced with a wide smile (it looked almost maniacally evil, if one was to observe it without hopeless infatuation in one's eyes).
Her hand trembled as she held out the notes. Her head nodded as she sat across from him (across from him! Either her sense of perception was wrong, or Ronald Weasley was sitting on the wrong side of the table!) Later, her legs carried her far ahead of him because his damned long strides were unusually short and slow today, and she would not, no matter how much her body ached for him, she would not stand and wait.
For such an action meant that she cared for his company, and everybody knew that Hermione did not like Ronald Weasley that way.
Because Ronald Weasley obviously did not care for her that way. He did not hurry to reach her side, and he no longer needed her notes.
It was time for the weekly almost-fight-if-not-for-somebody's-interference with Draco Malfoy and company. Hermione relished this. She was so wound up, so terribly distracted (Ron asked her again after lunch if she had eaten something unsettling, and Hermione told him it was only his presence that was making her wince) that she was not very eager to separate a potential brawl. In fact, she felt irritated enough to maybe use her extensive vocabulary. She planned to insult Malfoy so badly he would have to retrieve a dictionary to understand that she had just suggested his mother had amorous affairs with a crup.
Only, things didn't go as planned. Ron didn't go as planned, to be precise. Ron spotted the approaching albino, lamented the poor student selection of Hogwarts, and suggested they visit Hagrid and his new animal.
Hermione then discovered that she was in love with a boy who took his own notes, ate all his breakfast, and avoided immature fisticuffs.
She almost cried.
Then she noticed even more things about Ron. He held the door for her…well, for all females really, but Brilliant Mind was very picky at the moment, so it would only note that Ron liked to gesture for her to enter before he did so himself.
Brilliant Mind also saw that he saved her seat…when she asked him to. Sometimes, when she didn't ask him too. Once, after one rainy morning, on the way to Herbology, he had covered a rather unavoidably large puddle that had been in her path. True, he had covered it with a piece of parchment, so her shoes still did get rather soaked, and, also true, Harry had teased him to show some chivalry, but still. It was the sentiment that counted. And then there was that one time, after Hagrid saw fit to personally escort Neville to Madame Pomfrey's, that he actually saved her from an attempt on her life.
Well. Sort of.
For in the unsupervised state of the world (or in this case, the classroom), men must make monumental and diplomatic decisions. As there were no men present, and only seventeen year old boys, a war began, the animals of study being their only projectile weapons.
And he had jumped in her way before two airborne puffskeins could reach her. It had rather hurt when he landed on her feet, thus causing her injury in another fashion, but still. She could not help but sigh as he complained of bruised ribs, and puffskein bites.
Hermione had contemplated the most recent Notable Things About Ron Weasley (a list produced by Brilliant Mind) at dinner.
And then she did cry.
Who was she supposed to be? If he took away her role as tutor, nurturer, peace maker? The only open position left in Ron's life was girlfriend, and, obviously, he did not believe that she had the proper credentials.
Ron, on his third or fourth dessert, promptly choked on a tart and asked her what was the matter. Why was she crying when she had been smiling a second ago?
Oh yes, she asked herself acidly. How are we going to explain that?
She was Hermione Granger. Brilliant Mind had spouted the most ingenuous lies from her lips in the space of a heart beat. She could surely find a believably stupid reason for her waterworks for gullible Ron Weasley.
But it was Ron Weasley. And he always was (all right, that was a lie. He had never been, and only until very recently) detrimental to Brilliant Mind.
"Because it's so wonderful," she choked out, wiping away her unseemly tears, "being a woman."
That shut him up. In fact, he was so busy turning beet red and staring at his dessert that Hermione took the opportunity to go to her room and contemplate.
Who did have the proper credentials? Some girl with straight, blonde hair? Some girl with longer legs, perfect teeth, and bigger…sweaters? Had this straight haired, tall, evenly toothed, buxom blonde stolen Hermione's duties?
Hermione Granger was determined to find out. For if there was one thing Hermione Granger was good at, it was knowing everything.
Even the things that would break her heart.
She decided to be subtle about this. Dumb as a door knob he may have been, Ron possessed the natural male instinct, which hinted to him when he may be in danger. He tended to ignore it, especially when voicing his concern about her haggard appearance, but one never knew when Ron would decide to tap into his intelligence.
Five minutes of silent breakfast passed before all the other boys' natural instincts forced them to clear the table, and leave the mounting tension.
Ron dismissed his growing uneasiness as hunger, and happily ate his breakfast (even the eggs!) without a word. Harry subtly attempted to bodily drag his red haired friend with him on his way out, but Ron, normally such a fast eater, shook off his grip.
Hermione shook her head with pity. Ron, Ron, Ron. How easily you could have escaped your own funeral.
By the time she cleared her throat to question him, the hall was empty, and they were late for class. Another reason Ron and his secret girlfriend would have to suffer—well, at best, endure mild discomfort (Hermione wasn't normally vicious sort of girl). Ruining Hermione's perfect attendance record.
"Hermione?" Ron, for the first time, looked around. "Hermione, I think we're late."
"Oh!" she yelled, bolting to her feet, placing her hands on her hips, glaring at him as if he had confessed the most horrible sin. "Are we really?"
Ron took her abrupt anger in stride. "Er…maybe we're not…?"
"Make up your mind, Ron!" Hermione practically roared, looming closer. So close, in fact, Ron, still sitting, leaned back to avoid burying his nose in her chest.
"Um…maybe my inner clock is a bit off…"
"I mean, make up your mind about me!"
True, Hermione recognised the fact that maybe, inner clocks and romantic relationships were in no way related, but she was desperate for a transition, any transition.
"About you?" Ha! His voice cracked! Just another thing she could add to her list of Annoying Things about Ronald Weasley…
Incidentally, all the listed items also fell under the list of Lovable Things about Ronald Weasley, but, as that information was not helpful, Hermione dismissed that detail.
"Yes! I know what you've been doing!"
Ron blinked, and stared around the empty table in search of help. "What did I do?"
The accusation "You've become a mature young man" did not sound wholly evil in her mind nor out loud, so Hermione paused as she searched for the right phrase.
"Look," he began, almost desperately, "look, I've eaten my eggs." He lifted the muffins, and showed the bare plate underneath.
"You didn't eat the muffins," Hermione pointed out, very near tears for some unexplainable reason. Oh wait, there was a reason. Her first love was finding a way to live without her. That was a very good reason to cry.
Her body accepted said reason, and Hermione unleashed a small sob.
"I'll eat the muffins!" he declared quickly, stuffing his face. "I'll eat all the muffins! Don't cry, look!"
Actually, his last words sounded like "Domf fry, ook," but, amidst her heavy tears, Hermione did not care very much.
He managed to pull her shaking body beside him on the bench, straddling the seating so that he could face her. He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket to dry her eyes, and she wondered if it would be too obsessive to ask for it once she was done crying.
How dare he? Hermione wondered even as she accepted his comfort. How dare he find somebody else? She waited seven bloody years for him! She had stuck by him even when he had reached the pinnacle of stupidity (for boys, this was usually age fifteen. For girls, this was age…never). Hermione frowned as the tears subsided. She was brilliant! She was pretty! She had hair that would curl in the driest of atmospheres, and this stupid boy thought he found somebody better?
She stomped her foot to emphasize the absurdity of such an idea, and Ron visibly jumped.
"Is it a spider, Hermione? Did you get it?"
"You have been taking notes with somebody else!" was the accusatory reply.
Ron panicked, not all liking this new belligerence, but was slightly relieved nonetheless. If she was speaking nonsense about notes, then that meant there was no spider in the vicinity.
"And you've learned to walk with somebody else!"
"I didn't even know you when I learned to walk—"
"And for some reason, you've become a pacifist."
"I wouldn't say that, exactly…"
"Who is she? Who is she, you tell me right now!"
"Who is who, Hermione?"
"You've got some trollop on the side."
Ron, poor boy, poor raging imbecile of a boy, actually looked both left and right. "No I don't!"
"Oh you don't?"
"Oh, you swear?"
"Please stop repeating everything I say!" He was actually looking a little bit frightened. Hermione tended to frighten him, she noticed.
"Everything—I am not repeating everything you say."
"Well, now you're not, now that I've pointed it out—"
"Ron! You tell me who she is or I will…will…do something against the rules!"
It was the worst thing Brilliant Mind (also known as Adorably Prim Mind, when the occasion called for it) could produce on such short notice, and in Ron's disorienting presence.
Ron tilted his head to the side, looking very pleased at the prospect.
"I wouldn't mind that at all, come to think of it—"
"Well, don't think of it! Just think about this hidden girl you've been hiding, and then give me her name."
The Name was irrelevant. Hermione knew that. It was the owner of said name who would have to be eviscerated.
He stared at her. He stared at her so long that she almost forgot why she was angry; the fact that his eyes were dark blue around the rim and gradually became lighter towards the middle made her forget her name, in fact…
"Hermione? Isn't it redundant to say 'hidden girl you've been hiding'? It's rather like saying, 'Admirable girl you've been admiring,' isn't it?"
"Stop trying to distract me! Damn your eyes!"
This was said with a bit of a shrill. Please take note that Brilliant Mind disavowed any responsibility for Hermione's momentary insanity.
"I say, getting rather archaic with our swearing, aren't we?"
He kept dodging the point! He kept insisting there was no girl! When, clearly, there was one.
Hermione's mouth dropped open in horror. What if there wasn't one?
What if there were three?
How on earth did Ron manage to balance three girls? Three girls, seven days—no, he'd leave off Sunday, just to have a bit of a rest. Three girls, six days, meaning two days of Ron each, meaning… Meaning they were either incredibly stupid or amazingly in love to be satisfied with only two days—
Damn him! And damn her, and then damn her, and then damn her as well!
Brilliant Mind was driving at earth shattering speed.
But, then again, Ron lacked any sort of cleverness to juggle three girls. Boys were generally stupid when it came to manipulation.
Brilliant Mind came to a horrible, screeching crash.
Realistically speaking, Ron had every opportunity to become homosexual.
After all, he was the least promiscuous son (the twins had snickered one time that Ron was still a virgin, and Ron's ensuing blush confirmed the fact). He did not partake in the lewd jokes and conversations that boys tended to enjoy when discussing the fairer sex. He had more than his fair share of admirable male role models (those Chudley Cannons players he raved about, Hermione always noticed, were exceptionally dreamy. And Hermione recalled the number of times Ron would stare at devilishly handsome Sirius with awe…and perhaps, partiality? Not to mention flawlessly formed Harry as a best friend…). And, more realistically than anybody could care to admit, sharing dorm rooms with other young men during the most sexually confusing years of a boy's life played a great part when that boy was choosing which way he walked the road.
Oh, it wouldn't be so terrible if it were any other boy, for she bore no ill will towards that life style. In fact, with what boys did to her sanity, Hermione half wished she could find a nice, sensible girl to settle down with.
But no. She just had to go and be straight. She just had to go and be straight and be in love with Ronald Weasley. And it was all useless, because he found an alternative life style when he was supposed to be seeking education. Hermione had half a mind to burn this institution down, for doing that to her Ron.
And wouldn't that be funny? Brilliant Mind sidetracked a bit. For then Hogwarts would be a flaming homosexuality instigator.
"Listen, if you're still angry about that…incident, that was ages ago! I told you George planted those magazines—"
Oh, wait. That was right. There were those magazines she had stumbled upon during her last visit at the Burrow. And none of them included attractive young men. And, upon the showy return of the lewd material, George claimed with some sincere surprise that Ron had returned far more pornography than he had hidden under the pillow.
Oh. That was a relief.
Oh no. It wasn't. It only meant that there was still some buxom blonde—instead of a Viking sort—waiting in the shadows for Ronald Weasley.
Resigned to the fact that she wouldn't speak to him when Brilliant Mind was working, Ron had started muttering to himself. "I don't think he'll believe us if we both said we were sick. You were sick, and fainted, so I carried—"
"Ronald Weasley! You tell me who this girl is, this horrible slag who's reformed you! I know there's a girl, Ronald Weasley, don't you dare deny it! There has to be—"
Her finger jabbed into his chest, and he made a mental note to ask her to cut the ridiculously sharp nail.
"All right! All right!" he shouted, scrambling off the bench and away from her harmful hands. Hermione stared with a slack jaw.
"There is a girl?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You told me not to deny it," he pointed out mulishly, and crossed his arms.
Hermione wanted to stand, she wanted to show that such terrible, agonizing news had no effect on her…but her body refused to let her move just yet.
"What's her name?"
Here it comes. Two words that would destroy her life. An identity that would steal Ron away, rip apart the Golden Trio, make her world a living hell…
Hermione blinked and stared. Her normally brilliant mind couldn't quite digest the syllables.
"Ron…" she swallowed her tears, and tried to control the shaking in her tone. "Ron, that's sick."
She wished he were gay, or sleeping with three women. At least those two options were normal. But not that. That was clearly worse than homosexuality and over heterosexuality combined!
Up until then, he had been standing with a bewilderingly smug expression on his sharp, freckled face.
"Ron, I mean—that's just disgusting! She's your sister—"
"Hermione," he groaned, running his hands over his face. "Tell me you're not serious. Please tell me that you, the smartest girl in England, are not serious."
"How can I not be serious," she demanded, rising from her seat to stand directly before him. "You just said that Ginny, your sister—"
"Yes," he interrupted angrily. Angry that this very perverted facet of his life had just been revealed?, her mind suggested. "I just said that Ginny, my sister, has taught me certain things that she says annoy you."
Two heart skips and three blinks later, Hermione pushed the stomach out of her throat and eloquently emitted a "Huh?"
Ron shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at her with a distinctly displeased expression.
He was displeased? She was the one who just found out her crush—whom she believed to be perfectly imperfect—had developed some sort of relationship with his younger sister, and he was displeased?
"Please, listen closely, love. You," he pointed to her. "Angry with me. Me," he pointed to himself. "Sorry. Try to stop anger. Ginny help."
"Please start conjugating your verbs," she sniffled, tilting her head to meet his irritated gaze. "I can't love you if you're an imbecile and incestuous. I mean, one is bad enough, but the combination—"
"I am not incestuous!" he thundered. Ron paused, and added belatedly, "Nor am I an imbecile. I'm saying that, because of my evidently misplaced affection, I wanted to please you. Ginny decided to help me. She says that you always scold me at breakfast, my elbow always bites into your arm, I'm too lazy to take my own notes—"
"But I like writing your notes."
"Don't be daft," he snapped, impatient because she interrupted.
"Did you just call me daft—"
She was Hermione Granger! She knew everything about everything, and, up until he started being all Ron-like, she knew what to do in every situation. Maybe she was going daft, if she let this scarecrow of a boy damage her mind like this.
"Yes I did, and you're proving it by assuming that I had been pining after my sister." His nose wrinkled with tangible revulsion, and Ron had to swallow before continuing. "She said that you're always out of breath after walking with me—"
"You take such big steps…" she said in a small voice, shrugging.
"And that, in all the close calls with Malfoy, you always have to play the adult. In fact, she claims that you always play the adult, no matter what the situation."
"And?" he parroted, throwing his hands in the air. "And you shouldn't have to do that! I'm seventeen, and you shouldn't have to be so burdened with me!"
"But I like being burdened with you," she argued. "It's nice having you as a burden. Besides, it's not like you could help it—"
Ron let out something close to a cough, and his ears turned red as he observed the magical ceiling. He was smiling.
Here she was, terribly confused—he did mention "affection," right?—and the boy laughed at her.
She considered killing him any way, incestuous freak or not.
"Well…here's the thing." He leaned close to her, so that she could see every precious freckle, and smell the soapy scent of his body. "I sort of…already write my own notes."
"You write your own notes," she repeated, not quite grasping his confession. "And yet you accept mine because…"
"They smell like you," he shrugged happily, one hand rising to flick some lint off her shoulder. Funny thing was, it stayed here, his hand. His other hand made a great show of moving her hair off her other shoulder, and it stayed there too…
"Plus you draw these funny things in the margin—"
"But your eggs! Your eggs! You don't eat your eggs and you definitely need me—"
"I love my eggs. Hermione, haven't you noticed? I'll eat anything edible… and some things that aren't edible as well. I just like it…well… even when you're studying, you always make sure I eat my eggs. It's cute. I like my day to begin with your attention." He shrugged again, only his crimson ear lobes indicating how embarrassed he truly was.
"You've been walking so slow lately—"
"Yes, I do regret that." He shook his head with mock sadness.
"You've been walking fast on purpose?" For all her reasoning, Hermione couldn't fathom why Ron would want to tire her out with walking. Maybe to make her breathless, and steal any energy she would reserve for arguing with him?
"Oh…yeah…well, you do breathe very heavily when we reach class."
"So…you breathe heavily."
"So…" He bit his lip—as a distracting tactic, Hermione was very sure—and he laughed. "I like what 'breathing' heavily' does to your uniform."
"Does to my unif—" Hermione looked down at herself. Such proximity was having a devastating effect on her lungs, and she was surprised to see her chest rising and falling with the noticeable rhythm.
A rhythm Ron appeared to find hypnotic, for, when she returned her gaze upwards, she found his gaze remaining downward.
"Ron! You—" She raised her hand in a half hearted attempt to box his ears. He caught it—thankfully, for she wouldn't know what to do if she had truly injured him—and settled her fingers on the nape of his neck.
"You've been so different," Hermione muttered, liking how his ears reddened when her fingers toyed with his hair. "It made me worry."
"I don't think I've been different," he retorted, faintly indignant. "I just…took up a few habits."
"I like those habits," Hermione said, feeling ridiculously shy. Anybody would feel shy, she thought, after realising how much time she had wasted studying and analysing these "habits."
"Then I'll keep them," he promptly answered. "Though…maybe not all of them. I'll lose all my homework if I sacrifice parchment every time it rains in England."
"And not fighting Malfoy?" she asked faintly, not caring for the reason, not caring for anything except for winding both her hands around his neck.
"About that habit…I'm afraid I can't promise anything in the future."
"What makes things so different in the future?" she challenged, not wanting to admit surrender to whatever little game he had planned. Hermione felt somewhat tricked, and she could not pinpoint the reason why. She did come into this morning's breakfast with an agenda, didn't she?
"Well, in the future, I'll have some girl's honour to defend from the ferret, and defenses of honours always include violence."
"And I suppose you've had to 'defend honour' very often?" she asked, a smile tugging at her lips as he drew her closer to him.
"Only recently. My own, in fact. Some ridiculously beautiful yet scatter brained bint accused me of loving my sister in the wrong way—"
To stop the reminder of her temporary stupidity, Hermione tip toed and pressed her lips against his. And, while Ronald Weasley usually had very little opportunity to insult Hermione Granger's intelligence, he found her very soft, very delectable lips a very good reason to stop teasing her.
"Wait," she said as her lips brushed against his. Because Ron did not appear to hear her (at least, she hoped that was the reason he merely continued, hands resting on body parts not meant for resting on), Hermione was forced to pull back.
He let out an impatient sigh and demanded, in a voice that she could not describe as romantic no matter how much Brilliant Mind wished it to be so, "What?"
"We have to talk about this."
Ron's mouth dropped open. True, it had been open before, but that was for more pleasant reasons. Not because of surprise.
"What have we been doing for the past eternity?" he wanted to know, voice cracking out of sheer frustration. Hermione would have laughed if not for the fact that she was so distracted. Why were his hands cupping her backside like that, as if it were the most natural thing in the world?
"I mean, we have to be sensible. We have to make sure that Harry doesn't feel like a third wheel. We have to make sure that we can still find time for each other between Quidditch practice and studying time—I've seen both tear couples a part, you know. You must clear your chambers—here and the Burrow—of all the pervy things you like to read—though, reading, I guess, is not the main objective—and I must…"
He never learned what Hermione "must" do. Truthfully, he did not care very much.
At least, this was what Hermione assumed as Ron merely sighed, rolled his eyes, and brushed his lips against her once more, easily distracting her. In fact, she was so distracted that when he sat on the bench and pulled her into his lap so that he could whisper nonsense against her neck, Hermione did not mind so much.
Still, because she was Hermione Granger, and had to be sure everything was in precise order, she spoke. "So you're not gay, or very promiscuous, or romancing anybody in your family tree."
Ron smiled. "Spot on, Hermione. Always knew you were something of a prodigy."
And, before she could remark on his sarcasm, he resumed the kissing—she refused to call it snogging, as such a casual term did not apply to the wonderful things Ron was doing with his mouth—and did not let her speak for the rest of the morning.
For that, Hermione was grateful. She did not often display such slow reasoning, such hysterical paranoia, and could only conclude that being with Ronald Weasley caused negative effects on her thoughts.
And as his deepening kiss promptly washed away any coherent thoughts from her mind, Hermione decided it was not so terrible being distracted by annoying Ronald Weasley.
Ah…the dangers of thinking too much…does anybody realize this fic would be about one page long if it had taken place from Ron's point of view? Let's experiment (now I don't know if it's still a one shot, but I must persevere…)
Today I had breakfast.
Hermione went mental.
And then I kissed her and everything was all right.
P.S. I have detention later for turning in soggy homework. Must find a way to land Hermione in there with me as well.
Aw, he is wonderful, isn't he?