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Ron is thirteen when Hermione slaps Malfoy across the face so hard it leaves an imprint of her palm on the tosser's pale cheek.
“Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul—you evil—”
It doesn't really come off as a surprise; he has to tone down the urge to sock the bastard twelve times a day but for Hermione to do that—
It's amazing. She's amazing.
It's not until the dinner in the Great Hall that he catches it—Malfoy's gaze boring into Hermione's face. She's sitting beside Ron, laughing at something Dean says, her shoulder warm against his. A wayward curl tickles his cheek and he bats it away absently before turning back to Malfoy.
Did he blink at least once? Is he trying to hex her?
Anger, fury even, would be understandable. Expected. Maybe with a bit of disgust thrown in there somewhere. He was bested by a Muggleborn girl, after all.
That's not the case.
Still, something in Malfoy's eyes makes Ron want to shield Hermione from it, to protect her, even if she hardly needs it. His insides twist and churn with the need to get up and demand for him to stop. It's not outright malicious, no—otherwise, Ron would have something to say about it.
Rather, it's contemplating. Wondering.
Ron is thirteen when Malfoy starts looking at Hermione.
He never really stops.
Flashes of green, anguished screams of the Muggles nearby, the malicious charge in the very air—all straight from his worst nightmares. His ankle throbs but, thankfully, is steady when he steps in front of Harry and Hermione.
"Go fuck yourself, Malfoy."
“Language, Weasley,” he says with a drawl. Freezing tendrils of dread envelop Ron like Devil's snare. He has neither time, nor patience for Malfoy's bullshit. The git is right though. They need to get going. “You wouldn’t like her spotted, would you?”
The tension in his voice tickles something inside Ron’s mind.
Listen closely, it whispers. Pay attention.
Malfoy's face is even more angular in the pale moonlight and the sneer twisting his features doesn't look nearly as genuine as it did three months ago. It’s strained, as if someone pulled it over his features in haste, not bothering to check whether the mask still fit.
Or maybe he’s just scared.
But of what? What could he be terrified of when his father is probably roaming the forest under the black hood and silver mask?
"Keep that big bushy head down, Granger."
It's not his words that echo in Ron's ears hours later, unbidden, unwelcome.
It's the note of pleading underneath.
Steadily, something dark and prickly rises its head in Ron's chest while Krum twirls Hermione around the dance floor. Their Hermione.
She's nothing like their Hermione, though. Her hair looks different, as does her face. Or maybe he sees it clearly for the first time. She moves with a grace she didn't have before; gone is the slumped posture, gone are jerky motions and ink-stained fingers.
He’s not a stranger to jealousy. On the contrary, he's so intimately familiar with it he might as well give the beast a name and call it his pet. Ten years of growing up as the sixth child and four more years of being Harry Potter’s best friend allow him to recognise it for what it is. Still, it gives him a pause because of its sheer magnitude.
It shouldn't be like that. Hermione is his friend, same as Harry.
Slytherins are painfully quiet until Blaise Zabini offers his hand to Daphne Greengrass and leads her to the middle of the dance floor. Gradually, the Snakes thaw out.
Parkinson, in her pale pink dress robes, grabs Malfoy by the hand and drags him forward. The ferret moves like one of the muggle inventions his father told him about—ro-bats? Ro-bots? His steps are slow, unsure, as if he'd keel over at the lightest shove. What, hadn't his precious parents taught him how to dance? Malfoy's head shifts to the side, then, with a jerk, swivels back to Parkinson, only to pull away again, as if magnetised.
She chatters about something, fingers drifting up and down Malfoy's arms, while he looks over her head. As she stares up at him expectantly, he gives a belated nod to whatever she said. Her face falls slightly as they make another turn.
She blinks and looks over his shoulder, to where Ron sits. Their gazes cross and, for a wild moment, something painfully resembling understanding passes between them, before a scowl descends over her face and she fixes her gaze back on Malfoy.
Malfoy, who hasn't looked away from Hermione even once.
Throughout the night, the thing inside Ron's chest grows, festers.
How dare he look at her. How dare he—after everything his father and his friends did to those poor muggles. Malfoy himself isn't any better, spouting hate and bigotry on every bloody exhale. Why is he watching her then? Is it a new tactic to torment her? If so, then joke’s on him, because Hermione hardly pays him any attention.
Still, some twisted part of him is gloating. The girl Malfoy considers to be the mud on his shoes, the witch he thinks to be inferior, commands his attention like a bloody conductor. Oh, the sweet taste of irony.
All evening, she laughs and smiles, and laughs some more. He'd dare say it's more than she did in the entire time he's known her. Almost effortlessly, she pulls the attention of every person in her vicinity, all little to do with the man by her side. No, it's all her. They look, they whisper, they stare with their mouths hanging open.
The echo of her laughter bands around his rib cage and squeezes, squeezes, until his head goes light and the words that spew from his mouth are as out of his control as Fiendfyre.
"My, my," A voice drawls as soon as the door to the prefects' carriage swings shut. "Are my eyes deceiving me or is that Weasley?"
Heat crawls up Ron's neck to the tips of his ears when the words are followed by a girl's laughter. He grinds his teeth. "Shut up, Malfoy."
"No, I don't think I will." He's sprawled on one of the seats, ankle propped over his knee, one arm resting along the back of his seat. In his free hand, something silver glitters. A prefect's badge. The same gleam reflects in his eyes when he looks to Ron's left. "Granger. Did Potter get lost on his way here? Or is there another dementor on the train?"
Parkinson lets out another giggle, patting Malfoy's knee. Malfoy sends her a smirk before his gaze flits to Hermione. Does he expect her to laugh too?
Hermione, bless her, sends the ferret a look of pure disgust, then settles in the seat farther away from the Slytherins. She's all business, inquiring about their duties, meetings and similar stuff that bore Ron to tears ten minutes in.
The meeting goes without a hitch, which is a miracle in itself. (“Did one of your brothers give you their badge, Weasel?” is countered by Hermione’s patient hand on his arm. Besides sending shivers up his spine, it makes Malfoy even more vicious in his verbal attacks. Ron hides a smile behind his fist and doesn't react.)
When the Heads tell them to make up a rotating patrol schedule that would mix the prefects of different Houses, Parkinson lets out an affronted squeak. Hannah slumps in her seat and Goldstein starts scribbling something on a piece of parchment.
Malfoy is silent.
Two days after Harry earns a detention, Hermione holes up in the library, muttering something about exams and ‘that blasted Umbridge cow who wouldn’t let them study properly’.
Armed with an apple and a sandwich, Ron breezes past the rows of desks to the one in the very back, in the far left corner. It’s the quietest, most perfect place in the library, maybe even the whole castle—or so Hermione claims. He’s not an expert.
True enough, she’s nose deep in some massive tome, her quill dancing across the parchment in short, decisive strokes as she traces the lines in the book with her free hand. She’s completely engrossed in whatever topic she deemed worthy of research, so out of touch with her surroundings that she jumps a foot in the air when he drops the apple on the desk.
“Ron!” she gasps, hand flying to her chest. He grins, slinging a leg over the bench across from her. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”
“Heart attack? Is that a muggle disease?”
She rolls her eyes but thanks him for the sandwich, storing the apple for later.
“This is getting ridiculous,” she flips the page when she finishes her sandwich. His hand itches to smooth out the lines between her brows and he balls it into a fist. “If Umbridge doesn’t change her policy,” she lets out a defeated breath, “we might need to learn the Defence on our own.”
“What?” He stares at her, open-mouthed, while she starts fiddling with the end of her braid, slung over one shoulder. Is she saying what he thinks she’s saying? “But Hermione, that’s—”
Dangerous? Reckless? Brilliant?
Her expression turns miserable but the earlier determination doesn’t fade.
“I know, Ron.”
“If we’re caught, then—”
“I know, Ron.”
He nods in a daze. Of course. This is Hermione, after all. She wouldn’t have brought it up if she didn’t think it through first. Extensively.
“Do you think… Should we tell Harry?”
“No. Not yet, at least. It’s not something we’d want to dive into unprepared.” She scribbles down another note, spares a look at her wristwatch and promptly freezes. “Oh, no. The patrol. I’m—”
“If you are going to shirk your prefect duties, Granger,” a voice says from behind Ron and his spine straightens at the familiar biting tone. Fuck. How did they not hear him approach? Hermione glances up, eyes wide. “Then perhaps you should turn in your badge right now—to save everyone the trouble.”
Her scowl is instantaneous and she raises, collecting her things with a flick of a wrist. "Don't be silly, Malfoy. Being late for two minutes—
"—three—"
"—is not a crime, and you could have started the patrol on your own, you know—to save yourself the trouble," she says with an arched eyebrow.
Wand clutched in one hand, nose high in the air, she stares at Malfoy, stubborn, unflinching. She'd wipe the floor with him, if given the proper incentive. Of that, Ron is sure.
Malfoy stares right back, mouth set in a hard line, and that silent wonder in his pale eyes is still present, still as unnerving as it was two years ago, maybe even more so. For there is a new kind of intensity to it. It makes Ron's skin crawl.
He hates her, doesn't he? Loathes everything she represents, everything she is to her very core—he made that known on every occasion. Yet here he is, damn near transfixed by the way she pushes a loose curl behind her ear and glares at him.
It resonates with something inside Ron's chest, the countless times he's caught himself doing the same, and this—this twisted sympathy is more than he can handle.
He pushes up and away from the desk, then shoulders Hermione's enormous bag. How is she carrying this thing around all day?
"Do you want me to check this one out, Hermione?" He taps on the weathered cover of Charms of Defence and Deterrence, shattering the bubble of not-quite-animosity they created.
Hermione jerks slightly, before turning to Ron with a dazed look in her eyes. A pang of unease shoots through him. Whatever it is plaguing Malfoy, it doesn't leave Hermione unaffected.
She nods with a small smile and a quiet, "Thanks, Ron."
Warmth spreads through his chest, lingers as she offers his arm a quick squeeze before pushing past Malfoy.
The ferret glances at Ron, then schools his features into something resembling a sneer. Ron could applaud him for finally noticing his presence, an unwilling witness to Malfoy's affliction.
"Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley," he bites out and Ron can't even find it in himself to muster indignation. "For breaking the curfew."
Malfoy whips around and strides out of the library, and for the first time since they came up with that damning patrolling schedule, a new kind of tension infuses Ron's muscles.
They’re going to patrol together, numerous times.
Malfoy doesn't hate her.
Far from it.
Ron is fifteen when they break into the Department of Mysteries, fight off a dozen of Death Eaters and nearly die five times over, each.
Sirius is dead, the prophecy is destroyed and he hasn't had the chance to speak with Harry yet—not that Harry looks particularly talkative. It doesn’t help that Ron’s stuck in the infirmary.
The welts on his arms burn as the skin heals, excruciatingly slowly, Ginny winces when she steps on her freshly mended ankle, and every time Hermione brings a hand to her ribs with a quiet hiss, he wants to wrap his hands around Dolohov’s neck and squeeze until all air escapes his lungs.
His nightmares turn more vivid, more violent and when he thrashes himself awake, Hermione’s soft voice is the only real thing in the abyss of pain and anguish. When her whimpers wake him, he stumbles to her cot, sits on the floor and hooks his pinky with hers. She stops stirring after that. He drifts back to sleep most of the time.
One night, a noise pulls him from his slumber and he cracks an eye open, wincing at the crick in his neck. Their fingers are still hooked, and nothing is out of ordinary, except for the flash of white disappearing behind the massive doors of the Hospital wing.
The first half of the sixth year passes in a blur of Quidditch training sessions, patrols and countless prefect meetings.
The last two, he could do without. Hermione, to his surprise, is in a fervent agreement, if only for wildly different reasons. He has half a mind to lend her their family tent—to camp up in the library—but he’s too attached to his face, thank you very much.
They’re on somewhat shaky ground, ever since Lavender kissed him in front of the whole Gryffindor common room and Hermione's hellish birds almost clawed his eyes out. She avoids staying with him—them—in the same room at all costs, and that includes the Great Hall.
Which is how he finds himself on the receiving end of Malfoy’s glare. It’s nothing new, except, to Ron’s recent knowledge, he hadn’t done anything that required this level of burning contempt.
Besides existing, perhaps.
Alas, Malfoy’s delicate sensibilities is the last thing on the list of Ron’s priorities, especially as their Apparition Test is crawling nearer.
The second half is not so different, except by the end of the semester, Hogwarts is attacked, Dumbledore is dead, and nothing is the same ever again.
Eighteen wasn't something he expected to become when he went on the run with his two best friends, yet here he is, of age and kneeling on the freezing marble floor of Malfoy Manor, straining against the bindings of their captors.
Malfoy, paler than usual, cheeks sunken and blond hair haphazard on his forehead, looks and looks, and looks, and the terror of recognition reflects in grey eyes.
Hope is a dangerous thing, and Ron kills it well before Hermione's first scream shatters the air.
The war is over and he should be happy. Relieved, at the very least, but all he feels, all he knows, is a crushing hollowness in the place his heart should occupy. A black hole, gaping and all-consuming.
They fall into each other almost immediately, and the whirlwind of passion, affection and survivor’s guilt pulls them into its three-month long haze.
It stops feeling like love halfway through.
Their break-up is amicable. He kisses her on the forehead and a sob tears from her lips. She still smiles at him. Ever the brave Hermione. His chest hurts only for a moment when she disappears in the green flames.
Hermione goes back to Hogwarts, he follows Harry into the Auror programme and they don’t see each other until Christmas.
Family dinners are just as unbearable and he slips out as soon as he can. Ginny finds him in his room and, a few minutes later, so do Harry and Hermione.
“Malfoy is a Head Boy? Is this some kind of a joke?”
The anger seeps through the cracks of his body but it's residual. It was sated when his fist connected with the bones of Malfoy's face, right after he was cleared of all charges.
"He's not so bad," Ginny says softly and Ron gapes at her. Harry’s glasses slip down his nose as he blinks at her owlishly. Ginny pushes them back up his nose. "Wouldn't you say, Hermione?"
Hermione, who's conjured a cluster of tiny shining crystals above them, is busy rearranging them. This and that way, they spring and dance in the air, shaping up into different figures. She stills, almost minutely, and the crystals disappear with a flick of her wand.
"He's… tolerable, I'd say."
They don't press for more, shifting to other topics, and soon, the lines of the ceiling start to blur and his friends' voices grow muted.
He blinks the image of a crystal dragon constellation away as he drifts to sleep.
"We're friends," she says with a shrug, and to her, it's as simple as that.
Malfoy hangs back on the platform, throwing glances their way, suspicious at Ron and downright forlorn at Hermione.
His misery would be somewhat rewarding, if Ron cared enough. These days, it's hard to really care about anything, much less their former school nemesis.
When they head to the exit, she looks over her shoulder, brows drawn together, and Ron bites his tongue. Whatever has changed for Hermione, it's a far cry from the matter of tolerability.
"We're friends," she laughs at Ginny's inquiry months later.
They're interns at St. Mungo's, her and Malfoy, and his sister teases her mercilessly about the way they're attached at the hip. It is a feat to see one without the other, as they spend all their non-existent free time studying together, or quizzing each other, or studying together some more. They should be sick of each other by now, considering their endless hours spent at the hospital, and yet.
Ron almost chokes when a flush rises up her cheeks at the mention of how Malfoy doesn't look at her like a friend would.
Well, Ginny has always been the bolder one out of two of them.
"Just friends," she insists, shaking her head.
She's radiant in her deep red gown and Malfoy is going to develop a permanent crick in his neck, if the way he can't keep his eyes off of her is any indication. Ron snickers and elbows Harry when Malfoy almost walks over some elderly wizard in his haste to get to Hermione in time for the next dance.
He sweeps her into his arms and cradles her close; her bright laughter and beaming smile are as fresh in Ron's memory as if the Yule Ball was yesterday and not nine years ago.
As they waltz around the dance floor, disgustingly engrossed in each other, Ron catches Pansy Parkinson's look from across the ballroom. She nods at their obviously oblivious respective friends and arches a brow. This time, she's in an alluring dark green dress, and when a slow smirk spreads across her face, his own starts to burn.
They're friends, they're friends, they're friends.
He’d believe it, if only Hermione hadn't adopted the same lovesick look that Malfoy has been sporting all these years.
"I'm sorry, Ron," Hermione says, lips quivering. A dark spot is already blooming above her cheek, and she shifts on the edge of the cot, hissing softly. "I know this isn't how you wanted your birthday to go."
Harry snorts on his left. Bastard. Though, if any of them can sympathise, it’s him.
Ron is exactly twenty four when they—Harry, Hermione and himself—are attacked by the Dark Lord wannabe on their way out of Fortescue's. His Mind Healer would have a field day with this.
So much for celebratory ice-cream.
They occupy one of the emergency rooms at Mungo’s, waiting for their appointed Healer. He and Harry share a cot and Hermione is across from them, eyes bright with unshed tears.
“What’s a birthday without a little fight for our lives, eh, Hermione?” Ron says, then winces. With bruised ribs every breath is a pain in the arse.
“Still,” she insists, sniffing. “I never should have offered—”
The door bangs open and a whirlwind of blond hair and lime-green robes pushes through.
“Granger!” Malfoy strides to Hermione’s cot in three long steps and drops to one knee, brushing loose hair away from her face.
"What happened? Where are you hurt?" He stills, then slowly moves his thumb over the newly-forming bruise. Hermione sucks in a breath, eyes trained on Malfoy's face.
Ron stifles a groan and exchanges an eye roll with Harry. It's like they both aren't even here. Not that he'd want the same level of attention Malfoy gives Hermione, cupping her cheek and trailing the tip of his wand over the bruise, but it'd be nice to have his ribs healed, preferably in this century.
"Anywhere else?" Malfoy whispers.
Hermione caresses the back of his hand, still on her face, and gives a soft shake of her head, "No, Draco. I'm fine."
Friends, his arse.
Hermione really should look up the definition of the word.
"If only someone would attend to our wounds, too," Harry drawls. He's nursing his left arm, shoulder more than likely dislocated, if not broken altogether, and the look on his face is part pained, part amused.
Malfoy doesn't react, casting another diagnostic spell over Hermione. Pale green light envelops her for a moment, then dissolves in the air. The tension leaves his frame on the next exhale, and his thumb migrates to her cheek once again. Hermione, for her part, turns her head to the side, damn near nuzzling Malfoy's palm.
Ron swallows. What he wouldn't give for a drink right now. To numb the pain and the gnawing emptiness deep inside his chest.
He doesn't miss Hermione like that, haven't for a long time. They were wrong for each other in all the ways that mattered and thank Merlin they realised that before it became too late. It's just—it's crushing, sometimes. To wake up in an empty flat, to crawl back into a cold bed and wish, in the darkest part of his heart, to have that. The closeness to another human being, the level of silent understanding Malfoy and Hermione seem to have perfected, while he and Hermione never managed to get it right.
It's bittersweet, in a way.
Still, he's happy for her—or would be, if she opened her damn eyes and saw the ungodly crush Malfoy's been nursing for her for at least a decade.
Idiots, both of them.
Malfoy, apparently deeming that Hermione won't die of a bruised cheek, whips around to Ron and Harry with a glare.
"What the hell happened."
Shrugging, they simultaneously point at each other.
Twenty minutes later, Ron barges into the emergency room to retrieve his forgotten wristwatch—only to slap a hand over his eyes and turn back around.
“Lock the door next time!” he yells and shudders. What was the incantation for the cleaning spell again? He’d like to scrub his brain free of the image of Malfoy and Hermione being decidedly unfriendly with each other. Can they go back to the era of denial and mutual pining? He really didn’t sign up for this.
“Happy birthday, Weasley!” the git bellows right back before the door swings shut under a heavy set of warding spells.
Ron does what any mature wizard would do in this situation. He flips the bird at the door, then casts a Muffliato for good measure.
Some friends they are.
fin.