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Ron noticed nothing.
Hermione wasn't sure which bothered her more: that he hadn’t noticed or that she was actually surprised that he hadn’t. It wasn’t as though she had been expecting him to say something. Hoping, maybe—well no, not exactly that, either... But in any case, none of this should have come as any kind of shock to her, really. She’d known Ron Weasley for six years now and if she had learnt anything about him, it was that he could be rather oblivious about such things.
Still, she had been so certain—she would have bet her N.E.W.T.s on it, as a matter of fact—when she dabbed the perfume on her wrists and the pulse points on her neck that morning that he would have at least recognised a vaguely familiar scent in the air. He was, after all, the one who had given it to her in the first place. And besides, it seemed as though things were finally turning a corner with them lately. After he and Lavender had split up earlier this week, she had thought…
Hermione felt a furious rush of blood flood her cheeks. No, she wasn’t going to let herself go any further with that thought. Especially that thought. She was a rational, practical, reasonable sort of person—not the sort at all to be giving in to flights of fancy or delusions of grandeur, no matter how tempting though it might have been.
Doing so would only set her up for certain disappointment.
“It’s not as though I need History of Magic to become an Auror,” he was muttering—to no one in particular, though she supposed that since she was the one who happened to be sitting next to him in the common room, she was probably his de facto conversant. “Tell me something… what good could it possibly do me to know that Balthazar the Embalmer-”
“Baldwin the Embalmer, Ron-”
“-accidentally turned his brother into a mummy in the year 1124? How exactly is that little bit of information supposed to help me defeat dark Wizards? Unless I’m supposed to just lull them into sleep by throwing that fact out in the middle of a fierce battle…”
Hermione ignored him and casually dipped her quill in ink, never letting her eyes lift up from her essay, even though she’d been writing and rewriting the same sentence for at least ten minutes now. Thank heavens for erasing spells.
“What’s up with you, anyway? You’ve been quiet all morning.”
“That’s because I’m actually trying to get work done here.”
Ron snorted. “You’re always trying to get work done,” he said. “Never stopped you before from jumping on a chance to make a smart remark at me.”
“You sound as though you do that sort of thing on purpose just to provoke me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Something about the teasing tone of his voice made her look up, but she was completely unprepared for the grin he was sporting and found her mind go blank immediately, much to her profound horror.
So much for making smart remarks.
And then, of course, he had to go and make it worse. He had to say something completely and utterly sweet.
“It’s not like I stay up late at night thinking of ways to get a rise out of you, you know.”
Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t pulled back her hair that morning; there would be no way he could possibly miss her cheeks turning bright red at that very moment. And worse, it was probably even less likely that he’d be able to resist making some sort of comment about it.
“I should hope not.”
The grin grew wider. Hermione felt her stomach make a summersault. She fervently hoped her cheeks wouldn’t betray her any more than they already had.
“You have to admit, it’s kind of fun sometimes,” he said. “Not when we’re rowing, mind you, but… you know… when we’re having a spirited discussion.”
“Oh, is that what you’d call it?”
In spite of herself, she felt something tug at the corner of her lips. She fought it for a few seconds—a valiant fight, she thought—but eventually gave up the effort and let the smile come out in earnest, knowing full well what she was risking by doing so.
“Beats a boring conversation any day.”
She burst out into a laugh.
“I suppose that’s one thing I can’t say about you, Ron Weasley,” she said. “There’s no such thing as a boring conversation with you, is there?”
She could have sworn he had actually puffed up his chest just now.
“Nope. My wit knows no bounds.”
“Nor does your ego, apparently.”
Ron ignored this—or at least pretended not to hear her retort. He seemed more pre-occupied with other matters at the moment; he was now looking back down at his half-written History of Magic essay and let out a dramatic sigh.
“I never thought I’d say this,” he said, “but I’d actually prefer to do Potions homework right now. At least I know how that’ll come in handy for being an Auror.”
He slumped back in his chair and frowned. Hermione assumed he was simply brooding over his essay again, until she realised he was staring at her.
“What?”
“D’you smell that?”
She blinked back at him.
“I’m… sorry?”
“I’ve been smelling it all day,” he said, looking up at nothing in particular, as though concentrating hard on something not quite within his grasp. “It smells like… like Potions class.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
He scowled back at her, the way he always did when she didn’t quite get what he was on about, and yet he was expecting her to. Most unfortunately, this happened quite a bit that she had learnt to recognise that particular look of bemusement on his face.
“You remember. That day in Potions. When we were brewing that… that potion.”
“Yes, Ron, that’s what we usually brew in that class. You know—potions.”
“Very funny. You know what I mean.”
She sighed. If she knew what Ron Weasley meant half the time, life would surely be far less complicated than it was.
“C’mon, you’ve got to remember. How can you not remember that smell?” He looked up and, having spotted Harry coming down the boys’ staircase, nodded towards him. “Oi! C’mere for a second, will you?”
Harry shot back a befuddled look at Hermione, who simply mouthed at him, Just go with it.
“You smell that, right?”
Harry stared back at him. “What… parchment?”
“That smell—you know, like that smell in Potions once…”
“All I smell is some sort of perfume.”
Hermione suddenly felt her heart slide into her throat. She looked up at Ron, then at Harry, wondering if either of them might have detected the slightest hint of revelation on her face. Harry’s eyes flitted towards hers and she saw understanding begin to dawn in them. Hermione tore her gaze away, but she knew it was already too late; Harry had already guessed it.
“Oh,” he said, with exaggerated emphasis. “I think I remember which class you’re thinking of, Ron…”
“You see?” said Ron. “I knew I wasn’t barking.”
“You remember too, don’t you, Hermione?”
Harry’s eyes were twinkling with mischief. If he weren’t her best friend, she would have been sorely tempted to cast one of Ginny’s bat-bogey hexes on him just to wipe the look off his face.
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“Yeah right,” said Ron. “Like you ever forget a lesson.”
“It was the one where we made that… sleeping draught… Right, Hermione?”
“The… what?”
Harry grinned. “That smell. It smells just like the sleeping draught.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right. That.”
Ron looked triumphant. “I told you it smelled like Potions class,” he said.
“Yes, I stand corrected.” She got to her feet. “Well, I should really head up to bed. Good night.”
“Hey, wait up,” said Harry, calling out to her just as she reached the base of the girls’ staircase. “I’ve got a Transfiguration question I wanted to run by you…”
He caught up to her, giving her a knowing smile as he approached. At least, thought Hermione, he had the decency to do so when Ron wasn’t looking.
“It’s been a long night, Harry,” she said. “Can’t we go over it tomor-”
“It wasn’t the sleeping draught, was it?” he said, the grin on his face so wide that Hermione would have been shocked if his cheeks hadn’t been hurting. “What Ron was smelling before…”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”
“Must I remind you that I was almost the unwitting victim of a love potion?”
She glanced over at Ron who, thankfully, was too engrossed in his essay to notice them talking.
“You’re not going to say anything, are you?”
“And cut short this free entertainment?” Harry chuckled. “He really can be a bit thick sometimes, can’t he?”
She felt her cheeks grow hot again, and this time, the beginnings of a smile start to form, despite her best efforts to keep it at bay.
“I really need to be getting up to bed, Harry.”
“Right.” One last time, he smiled at her, as though giving her some sort of unspoken reassurance. “Hermione?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry. I think… he’ll figure it all out eventually.”
She started to say something, then thought the better of it and simply smiled. “Good night, Harry.”
“Good night, Hermione.”
She turned around and started to make her way up the staircase, and the smile that had played at the corners of her lips just minutes before finally came out. Ron Weasley may have been oblivious, but she had a feeling that maybe Harry was right.