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‘I’ll pack these for you,’ Hermione said brightly, taking Harry’s presents out of his arms as the three of them headed back upstairs. ‘I’m nearly done, I’m just waiting for the rest of your pants to come out of the wash, Ron –’
—
Ron couldn’t sleep.
He stretched out on the bed, dressed in an old Canons t-shirt and a pair of ancient pyjama bottoms. His sheets were tangled in his feet and he had one arm thrown back above his head. The other rested on his stomach.
He could hear the distant cluck of the chickens from his open bedroom window, and the stuffy heat that always rose to his attic bedroom left his skin clammy, despite a gentle breeze creeping in.
She’d seen his pants. She’d washed his pants? She’d definitely collected them.
He was mortified. He’d stood there, gawping like a fish, his ears red and his stomach clenching. It had all been blown away by the altercation with Harry about Ginny, but now hours had passed and Ron couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He wasn’t sure he was mortified anymore. He was flustered, certainly - but the idea of Hermione doing something so intimate had taken a different kind of hold in his brain.
He’d seen her pants. Only once.
She hadn’t been wearing them. She’d left a small pile of clothing in the bathroom, early in this visit, after a quick morning shower. She’d remembered immediately, and he hadn’t been able to do much but smile awkwardly as she ran back in, clad in a long bath towel, to grab what she’d left as he brushed his teeth.
They’d been a light shade of purple, they looked soft and comfortable but they were smaller than he’d imagined. They weren’t like the pants of the witches his brothers had shown him in wizard magazines. They didn’t look the same as the pants Lavender had worn, when he’d briefly fumbled with them under her robes one time.
These pants were oddly mesmerising. Later that day, he’d noticed her bra strap peeking out from under her t-shirt when they were feeding the chickens. It hadn’t escaped his notice that it was the same colour.
Did she always wear matching underwear?
The thought made him groan quietly. Harry was fast asleep, breathing deeply. Ron screwed his eyes shut for a moment, willing his thoughts elsewhere.
Horcruxes. The wedding. The war.
Her pants.
His pants.
When he unpacked that bag, he’d know that Hermione had handled his pants. His old, colourful, mismatched boxers. One of the few things that weren’t hand-me-down, but were well-worn nonetheless.
He supposed that was the end of anything remotely sexual between them. It was like something old people did, sorting washing and packing clothing. Hadn’t she done the same for Harry?
And yet. And yet.
He couldn’t help but hope. He couldn’t help but think about her warm, nimble, clever hands touching the material. Only this time the material was on him, and her hands were slipping under the waistband and he had full access to that majestic lilac underwear.
Bloody hell.
With a sigh, he sat up and casting a covert look over at Harry, asleep with his mouth open, he made his way quietly to the bathroom.
Pants.