Work Text:
Fresh Perspective
Because wizards obviously don’t have denistes, orthodontics, toothbrushes, or mouthwash.
Hermione held back the sigh of longing as she brewed the breath freshening potion...it reminded her of Ron's kisses…
Or at least, it reminded her how much Hermione wished she knew what they actually tasted like. Thoughts like these permeated her mind more and more as their fifth year at Hogwarts dragged on.
If Hermione was being honest, they were becoming a real nuisance. There she was trying to focus, trying to learn, to study and right in the middle of a lecture, in the middle of an essay, in the middle of a bleeding sentence in her book all she saw was Ron. Gangly, obnoxious Ron. Loud, impossible, exciting Ron. Tall, strong, unyielding Ron.
Clearly, nowhere was safe from these thoughts, either. In the common room, after quidditch practice Ron sprawled out on the couch in front of the fire and all Hermione could see was the cover of a romance novel. Her cheek twitched in jealousy whenever they found the occasional couple snogging in the halls during Prefect rounds. Now, of all places, in the dank Potions Classroom, with Professor Snape sneering from his desk and Draco Malfoy charming bits of paper to fly into her hair, as they brewed basic hygiene potions, the only thing Hermione could manage to conjure was the incessant desire to kiss the completely clueless boy next to her with reckless abandon.
Hermione had even started looking forward to double Potions over the course of the school term. Surely, Professor Snape was as hateful as ever, but the OWL curriculum was enough to truly keep her brain occupied on a challenge. That was true up until today, however, when the Professor stalked into the room and announced with disdain that this week would be a reprieve from their syllabus due to Snape’s revelation that 'the entire Fifth year student population wreaked with a stench other than failure'. He demanded the class pore over and perfect the concoctions for Hair Tonic, breath refreshing potion, and bodily deodorant.
There was nothing to distract her from the persistent daydreams, now. Worse yet, it was Ron’s week to partner with Hermione in Potions, so not only was he invading her imagination but he was constantly leaning inches from her to contribute his ingredients to the cauldron. His arms occasionally brushed up against her and instinctively she flinched, embarrassed by her rampant fantasies. Not that Ron could tell. Only sensing her tension, he murmured apologies as if his touch had disturbed her, and she spiraled deeper into her shame.
Their hands bumped again over the steaming potion as Ron reached out to drop a pile of mint leaves into the basin. Hermione squeaked and reflexively dropped her stirring ladle into the depths of the caldron.
“Hermione are you alright?” Ron whispered with gentle concern. His hand stayed hovering next to hers. She watched as their fingers reached tentatively towards each other, until at last he captured her hand in a soft and urgent motion.
“Ron…” She sighed, revelling in the warmth of his palm against her skin. She looked up into his eyes. He smiled down at her with focused adoration. Her heartbeat quickened as his other hand came to her cheek. She closed her eyes against his touch and leaned out to his waiting kiss--
“Hermione? Are you falling asleep?” Ron murmured beside her, bewildered and amused.
Hermione blinked away the vision she had drifted into. “No,” She hastily insisted, ducking her head down to hide the blush heating her cheeks. “The mint in the potion,” she stammered. “It gets in my eyes.”
“Well do you wanna trade?” Ron offered sheepishly, “It doesn’t bother me much.”
“No,” Hermione squeaked in humiliation. “This is almost done anyways I’ll manage.”
Ron muttered in agreement, but she could tell he was ruminating over her rejecting his offer. He had not been in the best of spirits since Snape’s diatribe describing the class’s poor hygiene and the way his gaze lingered on Ron as he said the word repugnant.
She recommitted herself to the task of stirring the caldron. She huffed and tried to reason with herself. After all, she wasn’t some depraved lovelorn girl. It’s not as if she sought the spearmint smell of the breath potion to conjure up impure thoughts of her best friend regularly. This was merely a coincidence, she associated it with him. Ron was a wizard; he was raised to use the potion regularly as opposed to Harry, and herself, who brushed and used other muggle techniques to keep their teeth clean. Hermione breathed a laugh remembering the conversation years ago when the three of them realized this difference.
“What?” Ron gave her mirth a sidelong glance.
“I was just thinking.” Hermione spoke softly, as not to call attention from the other students, “Of the first time I explained what my parents do for a living, and you thought I was mad.”
“I still think you’re mad,” Ron snorted, “Muggles paying other muggles to scrape their teeth with metal spikes, in the name of health?”
“You make it sound like torture.”
“Isn’t it?” Ron cocked a skeptical eye brow as he began to ground sage in his mortar. Hermione pursed her lips about to scold him, but Ron looked up from the sage to send her a jaunty joking smile. She paused to stare at his mouth. If only she could lean a little further in and close the space between them.
“This is bloody stupid,” Ron obviously read her silence as a form of reproving. This gesture deflated Hermione’s imagination. Ron didn’t have fruitless machinations about her in the middle of the day. He, blissfully unaware of her depravity, continued to pulverize his herbs. “I’ve been making these potions longer than I’ve known how to read. And Snape’s one to talk about cleanliness, the slimy git.”
“It is a real waste of the day.” Hermione refrained from chiming in on their teacher’s appearance, instead she mourned the loss of valuable study time. “OWLs are right around the corner; the least we could do is revise for something useful.”
“I assumed you’d be grateful, Granger,” Sneered the unmistakable voice of Draco Malfoy from a table diagonally across the aisle. Though he spoke at full volume, the professor did not comment on the disturbance. “Finally find a potion that will stop that Devil’s Snare on your head from suffocating the whole school.” His usual entourage of lackeys laughed, not caring if the teacher heard them; if he had heard anything, Snape only smirked into the book he was reading at the head of the classroom.
“Don’t listen to them, Hermione,” Lavender hissed over her shoulder from the station in front of them, “You’re so lucky to have natural curls like that.” Lavender complimenting Hermione stunned her silent, which left room for Lavender to continue in an encouraging whisper. “You just have to find the right conditioning routine.”
She blinked impassively as Lavender smiled and waited politely for Hermione to reply to her earnest compliment. “Thank you. Lavender.”
Lavender accepted Hermione’s hollow validation with a squeak and a shrug before returning to her work in front of her. Hermione felt her face blotch with a red flush as the Slytherin students continued to cruely snigger. She was suddenly all too aware of the ink stains under her fingernails and the flakes of paper falling out of her mousy brown hair frizzing in the humidity of the dungeon.
“We need another cauldron,” She mumbled before darting to the corner of the room where the school issued equipment was stored. The cauldron shelves only held dust. She flicked her eyes up higher to see the last available vessel sitting on the top shelf. She silently cursed herself for leaving her wand at her desk. She could already tell it was too high up, she refused to make a spectacle of herself by attempting to reach on tip toes. Just as Hermione huffed impatiently at the cauldron, somebody came up behind her, lightly pressing her into the shelves.
“Sorry,” Ron said, as she wobbled at his touch. She had already known it was Ron from the moment his body brushed up against hers. She glanced over her shoulder, practically pinned to the shelves. He was reaching with one arm overhead to take the cauldron down. She silently admired the line of his body as he stretched up to the true extent of his height and his muscles flexed under his careworn school robes. She swallowed a sigh as warm and tempting thoughts of pulling him in closer danced around her mind.
“You looked like you were struggling a bit,” Ron continued, taking a step back to give her space to breathe.
“I would have managed.” Hermione protested weakly.
“Sure, perhaps if you stared at it long enough, a bout of wandless magic would summon it to you.” Ron quipped, cheekily. Hermione averted her gaze from him, as he had pretty much guessed her plan. “Hey…” Ron called her back to look up at him. “I didn’t really get to say it earlier...but sod Malfoy.”
Hermione chuckled at Ron’s most basic instinct to speak his mind.
“And...er, Lavender’s just trying to be nice...in her own Lavender way...” Ron winced.
“Oh,” Hermione sighed and shook her head as she confided in him, “I get enough of that in the Girls’ dorm.” Truly, Hermione had become accustomed to Lavender’s unsolicited beauty tips; over the years Hermione had learned this was Lavender’s attempt to bond with her. Ever since the Yule Ball, Lavender probably thought she had made some headway with Hermione, and it was much to her chagrin that Hermione had not taken on the more high maintenance look for everyday appearances. It just seemed impossible for Lavender to fully understand that, even though she enjoyed the makeover for a special occasion, the girl on Viktor Krum’s arm wasn’t who Hermione wanted to look like all the time. That said, it was hard to reconcile that Hermione’s true self didn’t seem to be enough for people. It obviously wasn’t enough for Lavender, sometimes it worried Hermione that it wasn’t enough for Ron.
That’s when thinking about him the way she did felt leering or delusional. Ron had barely registered Hermione as an option until the Ball. It was laughable to think that Hermione, as she was, could stir something in Ron akin to what he had for her. Perhaps someone with the capacity to be pretty all the time, like Lavender, was who could.
“Yeah…” Ron hugged the cauldron to his chest, Hermione resisted the urge to stare at his forearms flexing around the cast iron, “A couple weeks ago, she shared that brown hair might suit me better.”
Hermione guffawed. “Brown, really? A brunette Weasley? I can’t even begin to imagine.” Actually, she could, and the first thing that came to mind was if Ron's hair color matched her own, he might look vaguely related to her. Casting a brunette Ron in her daydreams briefly wrinkled her nose.
“Yeah tell me about it.” He chuckled, rocking on his heels. Neither of them moved to go back to their table. He offered a small smile and said, “So, y’know, she hasn’t got the right idea all the time.”
Hermione gulped down the hope swelling in her chest. Even without knowing, Ron had made her feel just a little more comfortable in her own skin. More than ever, she wanted to thank him by knocking the cauldron from his arms and taking its place. Instead, she nodded back over to their abandoned workstation.
“Let’s get back to work,” She suggested brightly, “Better brew that deodorant before class ends.”
“After you,” Ron gestured around the cauldron for her to lead the way back to their desk. She took a few steps ahead of him. “Hermione, wait.”
She stopped and turned, curious about his request.
“Your hair...er..you’ve got--Hold still.” Ron shifted the cauldron into one arm, and reached for her fringe. With deft fingers he sifted through her curls. Hermione barely contained a shiver as he gently pulled out a shred of paper. Ron, oblivious as ever, flicked the paper to the side, and muttered, “Sodding Malfoy.”
“Thank you, Ron,” She managed to squeak out, turning on her heel to hide her blushing.
“My pleasure,” Ron followed her nonchalantly.
‘The pleasure’s all mine.’