Ronald Weasley is Confused

For the life of him, Ronald Bilius Weasley could not understand what his best friend and his older brother saw in one another.

He watched them sit on a couch together, her reading a book [surprise!] and him working on some new plan for his business. Sometimes she would look over at him, roll her eyes, and go back to whatever obscure tome she was reading. Sometimes he would look down on her, roll his eyes, and go back to planning the bane of Hogwarts' Prefects for years to come.

He could not understand how they could just look at one another like that, sideways, without the giggles and sighs that seemed to hang heavy in the air from other couples.

Stolen kisses from under the velvet darkness of a handy closet, warm hugs and hot embraces shrouded in the deep, deep night. He looks down at her and smiles slightly as she reaches up and gently cups his face.

They went to Quidditch games as a group. The boys would whoop and holler as Chasers made spectacular dives, scream in horror as their favourite player took a particularly nasty hit from a Bludger, and cheer like mad every time they made a goal.

Hermione would sit quietly next to George, between George and Ron, and Ron would see Hermione pat his leg to quiet him if she was immersed in a particularly gripping passage about House-Elves rights. George would put his hand on her knee as he pointed out a particularly fine move to Ron and Harry, and she would doze quietly on his shoulder once the game had finally bored her senseless. Women really were mad.

Ron had seen other Lavender and Parvati around their boyfriends; they'd screech and jump and pretend to be utterly fascinated by a game they often knew nothing about, which confused Ron. Why go to a game and get excited about something you don't care about? But Hermione never blinked.

He could not understand why she'd put up with the noise of the game just to be near George. He couldn't understand why George would bring her here when she totally ignored him.

Hands on wounded knees in quiet reassurance, hands clasped together in silent prayer. He picks her up and tells her You can do it, Hermione. Wet faces cushioned against firm chests, promising that they'll always be together, life passed from one breath to the next.

Hands tangled in ginger hair, holding a freckled face close.

They walked down Diagon Alley. Ron and Harry discussed the merits of this witch and that one, praising the beautiful and shuddering at the rather unpleasant. George and Hermione walked in front of them, Hermione looking straight ahead, George watching their reflections march by in the mirror.

Ron thought that Hermione was pretty; one would have to be blind, stupid, and, well, a Malfoy to not see it. But he always viewed her as an almost cherubic beauty, infantile and angelic in her softly-rounded cheeks. And George... well, he supposed that George was good looking [not attractive! heavens, no] as far as went blokes went, but he always figured that Hermione would go for the more studious looking boys, and not one with a giant, goofy grin pasted on his face all the time.

Rough hands kneading soft flesh, fingers searching in awe of the light and the beauty. Not an angel, but a goddess, the Goddess and George worships every inch of her, memorising the small of her back, where her tangle of brown hair collides with the slight curve of her spine.

Short fingers tracing scars, from war and peace, learning the stories of childhood games and grown-up battles. Not a boy, but a man, a man she adores and cherishes, and she soaks up the fables of his life, countless between the constellation of freckles and the criss-cross marks of old mishaps and faded wounds. He smiles, and she waxes life and love into a single, solitary kiss.

They sat down together for dinner, Hermione sandwiched between a grinning George and merry Molly, bravely facing the onslaught of innuendos of marriage, grandchildren, and naughty, naughty things subtly spoken of by the elder Weasley boys.

She smacked George's hand without looking, defending her lone piece of turkey as he attempted to spear it without her noticing. He retaliated by dumping his peas on her plate. Or rather trying to, and it ended up in Hermione's lap instead.

Ron watched as Hermione stormed off, flinging peas into the kitchen sink as she stomped her anger and disapproval until the house shook. George chased after her, and Ron steadied himself for the onslaught that would inevitably follow.

He could not understand how they could get back together after their rows; they were louder than the ones he and Hermione had shared, with an obvious inflection of "Lover's Passion," as his mother might say with a cooing sigh. George would try to dismiss it and Hermione would want to talk it through.

A whisper of I'm sorry and an embrace tighter than death; a furious sniff and then a tinny-sounding sniffle. It's pride that's hurt more easily and deeply than any amount of peas dumped in laps can ever accomplish.

Two arms stretched in the night, pleading for forgiveness, and two more that offer peace for it. A nose buried in a mass of fuzzy brown wire as it asks for leniency, and a small, pink mouth smothers its forgiveness on a strong neck.

A sudden shriek interrupted Ron's train of thought.

George dashed into the room, waving some string in his hand. Roaring behind him was Hermione with a flyswatter in her hand, smacking George at every avaliable moment.

"GEORGE FREDRICK WEASLEY!" she screamed, swatting him across his shoulders, "GIVE ME BACK MY HAIRTIE RIGHT NOW!"

Ron couldn't help but laugh as Hermione chased George in circles, threatening death and destruction at every which way. She finally tackled him, pinched him in the ribs, and recovered her hairtie, pinning her mane back into its normal disasterpiece on her head. George rolled his head back and laughed, holding onto Hermione's sides as she straddled him.

Ronald Bilius Weasley could never understand what his best friend and his older brother saw in one another.

But he watched her wrinkle her nose and pinch George again.

He watched George laugh until his nose turned red and he cried.

And Ron understood that he really didn't have to.

Two voices laughing quietly into the night, hands roaming and feet kicking. Names fading into the night, private pleasures and sorrows mingling into a faint chorus that only angels and devils can hear. Two sets of eyes falling, flitting, closing, sleeping, together; a teardrop of peace in an ocean of chaos.

He smiled.

Fin