Eye Contact

The common room began to empty as the hour grew near midnight. Ron Weasley hardly noticed the groups of students going up to their dormitories, nor was he paying much attention to the parchment that was supposed to be his Charms essay sitting blankly in his lap. He had to finish it since the Gryffindor House Quidditch team had to practice all day tomorrow to make up for the cancelled practices of the last two weeks, as the torrents of rain that made up the last half of November made it nearly impossible to see, let alone fly a broomstick. Ron, the team's Keeper and newly elected Captain had been reluctant to cancel tonight, as the rain was letting up some. But the three foot long Charms essay he had due on Monday, along with Hermione Granger's persistent needling for him to keep on top of his schoolwork this year, meant that he had no choice but to stay in the tower for the night. His best friend and teammate, Harry Potter had gone to bed an hour ago complaining of a headache. Ron hesitated to follow, recalling Harry frequent fits of last year, but a look from Hermione had forced him to ask Neville to keep an eye on Harry and go back to his schoolwork.

He looked down now at the four inches he had written in the last hour. He had one foot left to write. 'Damn,' he thought. 'I'm never going to finish this.' He wrote two sentences and then crossed out the last one. 'Damn!' he thought again. He looked to his left at Hermione, who had stayed in the common room to read Conversations on Experimental Transfigurations as well as "to keep him company." He was sure she was just staying to avoid her dorm mates Lavender and Parvati, who seemed to have developed a nasty habit of gossiping rather loudly whenever they came within 6 feet of one another. Ron knew how well Hermione knew the dangers of rumors, and she stayed well away from the giggling gossiping duo as often as she could. Right now her bare feet were tucked underneath her as she read with her head resting on her small fist, her elbow propped against the arm of the squishy armchair near the fire she had conjured for the night. He was sorely tempted to forget finishing his essay tonight so he could just sit and watch her.

She wasn't exactly fascinating at the moment -- she was only reading -- but he had lately found himself more and more tempted to look at her for long periods of time. He had had the best of luck at this in History of Magic, when Professor Binns's droning, wheezy voice put most of the class into a stupor, while Hermione took copious notes on the many Goblin Rebellions of years gone by. He took glances at her in between rounds of Hangman with Harry. Several times he found himself watching her without realizing he had been doing so. It hadn't been long before Harry noticed.

"Ron, you've guessed H six times now," Harry whispered.

Ron had turned away from watching her. "Huh? Oh, okay, I'll tell them," he said, not paying attention. Harry scrutinized the back of Ron's head a moment.

"I've also decided to quit Hogwarts and become a spokesperson for the AbRoller."

"That's nice," he murmured. Ron's focus was back to Hermione, who was chewing on her lower lip as she wrote. He'd often watched her as she did this, wondering if she tasted like she smelled -- of mint and chocolate and a bit of dust, from her habit of spending hours at a time in the school library.

Harry rolled his eyes and doodled a few pictures of the things he'd like to turn Dudley into if he could. The pygmy goat was his particular favorite.

At lunch Harry had confronted Ron after Hermione had trudged off to the library.

"You fancy her." It wasn't a question.

"Who?" Ron said, forgetting the forkful of cobbler that had been on its merry way to his mouth. It stayed in midair as Ron turned towards Harry, knowing full well to whom he had been referring. 'Am I really thought obvious?' he thought.

'Of course you are, stupid,' replied the voice he often consulted when in self-reflection mode. 'You've been staring at her every chance you get.'

'Can I lie to Harry?' he asked the voice.

'No,' it replied firmly.

"You know who I mean. It's as if your eyes have been glued to her for the last three months. So, as I said, you fancy her.” Harry said it slowly, as if speaking to a small child. He was grinning. "You fancy her,” he repeated in a singsong. Ron could feel the heat rising to his face.

"Shut up Harry," he'd said half-heartedly, but he couldn't help grinning himself. He didn't have to lie to Harry. And strangely, it felt good that someone knew. He also knew that by now his ears had probably become bright red to match his hair. Harry laughed.

"Don't worry, mate. I won't say anything." Ron's best friend laughed again slapped him on the shoulder and trotted away.

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The chiming of the grandfather clock that signaled the arrival of midnight brought him back to the present. His eyes flicked down to his parchment once again. He had managed some nonsense about the practical uses of locomotion charms. 'It's good enough,' he told himself. At least it takes up five more inches. He knew Flitwick wasn't a stickler for length but he didn't want to leave the common room yet, as Hermione still hadn't left. He watched her read for several moments. It was an amazing thing, somehow, to watch someone read in the firelight. The low flames cast an orange tint on everything in the room, lighting her hair with a strange golden-orange glow. She had managed to somewhat tame her normally wild and frizzy hair for once; it lay in graceful waves over her arm, seeming soft and substantial all at once. He sighed heavily, breaking through the silent moment. As Hermione lifted her head up to look over at him, he quickly looked down at his essay.

'Stupid,' he grumbled silently to himself. 'You've got to stop staring at her. She's bound to notice soon enough, and then where will you be?'

'You want her to notice.' The voice had spoken up again.

'But she doesn't fancy me. She'd probably just tell me off,' he argued inwardly.

'But how do you know she doesn't fancy you?' That voice was getting annoying with its logic. He didn't want logic right now. Logic would mean finding out, and he was perfectly happy with his speculations.

'You're not happy with them, though.' Bloody logic again. Only this time it wasn't that voice that bugged him with the obvious. The truth was he had no idea of Hermione's feelings towards him. He remembered his first Quidditch match, in fifth year:

His insides had been churning all week, it seemed. His nervousness seemed to have increased tenfold by this morning, with the match only a few hours away. Jeers coming from the Slytherin table made it even worse, if possible. He had tried to explain to Harry that he couldn't play, that he was a fool to think that he was cut out for this. His head felt as if it was being pulled in twelve different directions, at the same time like it was near implosion. 'I am very much not ready for this,' he thought desperately. Harry was still trying to get him to eat something, but Ron's stomach wasn't working properly anymore. It seemed to want to push more up than it was willing to take down.

Harry got up from the table, and Hermione followed suit. Ron took a moment to contemplate cursing himself just so he would be rendered incapable of playing, but he didn't know any that Hermione couldn't have gotten rid of in about two seconds flat. He felt desperate, but he resigned himself to his fate.

'Maybe I'll fall off my broom two minutes in and forget I ever thought I would try this.' His thought was morbidly hopeful, but he still wanted to curse himself. Even two minutes would be too long. He got up from the table and walked to where Hermione was telling Harry something. 'Probably telling him to not let me see those Slytherin's badges. Too bad I got a good glimpse of them when I came in here.' He was of course, recalling the crown-shaped silver badges nearly the entire Slytherin table had on, which read, "Weasley is our King." He knew better than to think they were to get his hopes up. The Slytherins never said nice things about Gryffindors without some sense of mean sarcastic irony, and this was nothing more than to torture him further. It was definitely working.

He was paying very little attention, and only came to mostly consciousness when he felt a hand on his arm. Suddenly, Hermione was on tiptoe, kissing him on the cheek. Time seemed to slow for her lips to linger on his skin, but before he could process what she had just done, she was gone. 'Did that really just happen?' he thought. He brought his hand up to touch the spot where her lips had just been, genuinely confused. 'Had she ever done that before?' His frazzled brain wasn't working.

The voice came calling. 'No,' it said, 'she's never done that before.' His cheek tingled.

Another tingling on his lips brought him back to the present. He had been running the feather of his quill over his lips as he was thinking about that day. He looked up over at Hermione, to find that she was looking at him. Watching him?

His eyes found hers as he shifted slightly in his chair to face her more easily. She was definitely looking right at him now. Her eyes were deep, drowning pools of brown, with flecks of gold from the firelight dancing about in them. They were thoughtful, focused into his eyes. He flicked his eyes quickly across her face, pausing as he saw what fascinated him most. She was chewing her bottom lip, as she did most often when she was puzzling over something.

His heart had decided to take a camping trip up to visit his Adam's apple, and it throbbed painfully in his throat. His eyes frozen, his tongue involuntarily darted out to wet his lips. Trying to swallow was proving more difficult that usual, but he finally managed it, and found her eyes again.

An unfamiliar voice of reason, one which hadn't spoken up before said, 'Don't look away, whatever you do.’ She's going to have to look away first.' Just as this went through his mind, he also realized it'd been nearly thirty seconds since he'd last blinked. But he wasn't going to shut his eyes.

He glanced at her lips again. She was still worrying the pink skin of her lower lip, and his treacherous tongue flicked out to wet his own once again. He was really wondering what she tasted like. The voices in his head were arguing. The unfamiliar voice that told him not to look away was trying to convince him he'd never get another chance like this. The rest of his consciousness was telling him not to do it. 'She'd probably slap you! She doesn't want to be anything more than friends you know.'

'But I don't know. And this way I can find out.' Slowly, not taking his eyes from hers, he placed his parchment and quill on the small square table between their chairs and got to his feet. She didn't move, but didn't break eye contact either. Her eyes widened slightly, as she watched him move the short distance from his chair to her. He was now standing in front of her, and she was craning her neck to keep her eyes locked in his. He dropped to his knees, so they were eye level. His heart had climbed back down into his chest, but it was thudding painfully again his ribs. He face was only four inches from hers. And with an odd mix of terror and thrill, he realized that she wasn't backing away.

His heart pounded wildly as he contemplated what he was about to do. Then he did it.

Four inches became nothing, and his lips were pressed against hers. His head was swimming, and his stomach did a back flip when he realized she was kissing him back with equal pressure. He would have fallen over had he not put his hands on either side of her face, and her arms went around his neck, her hands combing gently and slowly through his hair. His face felt hot but he didn't dare break this kiss just yet. He still had to know what she tasted like.

Opening his mouth slightly, he pulled her lower lip between his. She tasted sweet, like chocolate and pumpkin juice. But not a bit dusty. He heard her let out a small surprised noise, and he released her lip, thinking he had perhaps gone too far, but found instead his own lip trapped between hers, as she repeated what he'd done to her. He felt as if a current was passing through them, a feeling which intensified as she lightly dragged her fingers over the tops of his ears.

Head feeling fuzzy and light, he kissed her once more, hard, and finally broke away. His lips were tingling and he felt slightly out of breath, but the corners of his mouth quirked up as he watched her face. Her eyes were still closed but opening slowly and she looked drowsy and content. She still had her arms around his neck, and her fingers played with the hairs on the back of his neck.

He ran his thumb over her lower lip and she smiled, looking him in the eyes again. He smiled back at her, truly happy that he’d listened to the new voice. He gazed at her adoringly, knowing now that she must have felt about him the same as he felt for her. They gazed at each other without saying a thing for several seconds before she broke the silence, speaking the first words between either of them since Harry had gone up to bed.

"You taste good," she whispered.

He grinned stupidly. "You didn't taste so bad yourself. In fact, I think I'd like to go back for seconds." She giggled as he pulled her into another kiss.

The End