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Gleaming
Twinkling
Eyes like sinking ships
On waters so inviting
I almost jump in
Hermione had always known Ron Weasley was beautiful.
Not in the obvious way. Not the way other people seemed to think beauty worked—chiseled features, practiced smirks, too-loud confidence. Ron wasn’t that kind of beautiful. He never had been.
Looking at his family, it made sense he’d be attractive too.
Bill with his effortless, curse-breaker cool. Charlie with his dragon-tamer strength and fearless grin. Even Percy, for all his pompousness, had a neat, composed sort of handsomeness. And then there were the twins—serial heartbreakers without even trying.
Growing up in the shadow of all that must have carved insecurity into Ron’s bones before he ever stepped foot in Hogwarts. How could he not compare himself? How could he not shrink a little beneath brothers who seemed to be born brilliant?
But Ron’s beauty was different.
Quieter. Softer. Something you didn’t notice unless you were really looking.
Hermione had been looking closely for years.
The curve of his smile when he was proud of himself. The way his freckles brightened in the sun. The warmth that rose in him first, before his words ever caught up.
She had catalogued these things privately, carefully—tucked them away like secrets she was proud to carry.
She’d seen all of it long before he grew tall, long before his shoulders filled out, long before every girl in the corridor started twisting their hair when he walked past.
And there was a strange, quiet satisfaction in knowing she’d noticed before anyone else.
A glow of pride. A pulse of protectiveness.
He was hers to recognize first.
But now—now that the rest of Hogwarts had finally figured it out—she was paying for it.
~
The Gryffindor vs Slytherin match had ended not ten minutes ago, the stands still echoing with cheers, and Ron—Ron—had been the hero.
He’d thrown himself into that last dive, blocked Montague’s shot with a reckless twist of his whole body, and the crowd had exploded.
Now the entire Gryffindor team was carrying him across the pitch, his hair windblown, cheeks flushed with victory, eyes bright with disbelief.
And Hermione’s stomach was doing dangerous things.
Because everyone else was finally seeing him.
And she hated it.
’Cause she doesn’t like a gold rush.
She didn’t like the way the crowd surged toward him the moment his feet hit the ground.
She didn’t like the looks—the dewy-eyed “is that Ron Weasley?” looks—floating through the air like sparks.
Lavender was practically glowing.
She had heard Lavender tell the Patil twins how hot Ron had gotten over the summer. Hermione overheard it in the girls’ dormitory, a giggly, conspiratorial whisper that made her want to hex the nearest pillow.
A cluster of Ravenclaws were already whispering. Even a group of seventh-years were taking turns giggling into their scarves.
Hermione felt her heartbeat climb into her throat.
She didn’t like anticipating her face in a red flush—a flush of jealousy.
Of course she was flushed. She always was around him, but this—this was different.
This was the whole school staring at him the way she had always stared at him.
This was unbearable.
She didn’t like that anyone would die to feel his touch.
Someone from the stands actually yelled, “RON, DO YOU NEED A QUEEN?”
Hermione’s jaw clenched so tightly she thought she heard her teeth creak.
Ron went pink. He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he didn’t know how to accept praise.
It made Hermione’s chest twist because he didn’t understand—he never had—that he was worth yelling for. Worth cheering for. Worth wanting.
But the rest of Hogwarts seemed to realize it all at once, like a collective awakening.
Everybody wants him.
Students on all sides rushed toward him—except Slytherin, of course.
Hands clapped his back.
Someone ruffled his hair.
Someone else slipped an arm around him a little too familiarly.
Hermione felt something hot and painful surge up inside her.
Everybody wonders what it would be like to love him.
They didn’t know him.
Not really.
They hadn’t seen him laugh himself breathless over a badly drawn Chudley Cannons comic.
They hadn’t watched him try—really try—to get a spell right until his hands shook.
They hadn’t been there when he whispered worries he never shared with anyone else.
They wanted the Ron who had saved the match.
Hermione wanted the Ron who told her secrets in the dark.
He turned then, scanning the crowd with that wide, searching blue gaze.
Looking for someone.
Hermione’s breath caught.
He spotted her near the front of the chaos—she couldn’t move, her feet rooted to the ground—and for a second it felt like everything else blurred out.
Looking for her.
Walk past, quick brush.
He pushed through the crowd toward her. Every bump, every shoulder he moved past tightened something inside her.
His hand brushed hers—her wrist—when he reached her.
Just a graze.
Barely anything.
But Hermione felt it like a shock.
She didn’t like slow-motion double vision in rose blush.
Because that’s what it felt like—the whole world slowing to a syrupy crawl, her vision blurring at the edges, everything dipped in warm, rose-colored heat.
Awful.
Wonderful.
Terrifyingly revealing.
Because every time he smiled at her—really smiled—she felt as if she were the only girl he saw.
And that was the problem.
That soft, impossible illusion.
That fragile, foolish warmth.
The way a single glance from him could convince her of things she knew weren’t true.
Ron would never make a move.
He didn’t see her like that.
So she had to shut down her own delusions before they grew any louder—before they led to a disappointment she wasn’t sure she could survive.
“Mione!” he said breathlessly. “Did you see that last save? Merlin, I thought I was done for—”
Her throat tightened.
“Of course I saw,” she managed, voice thin. “Everyone saw.”
He blinked. “You’re… red. Are you alright?”
No.
No, she was not alright.
She was in love with him, and half of Hogwarts was suddenly trying to be, too.
She doesn’t like that falling feels like flying ’til the bone crush.
Because Hermione knew herself well enough: jealousy made her spiral, and attachments made her anxious.
Fantasy felt safer than reality—safer than wanting something she could never have.
Safer than letting hope sharpen into heartbreak.
Hermione swallowed hard, wishing she could stop the feeling—this dizzy rush of warmth and fear and longing—but she knew the truth too well now:
Loving Ron felt like flying. Sure– she has only experienced flying when Ron took her flying with Harry and Ginny during the summer.
But wanting him felt like falling.
And watching the gold rush gather around him felt like hitting the ground– hard.
He nudged her shoulder lightly—so gently that she thinks he’s afraid of hurting her.
“I kept looking for you when I was up there,” he said softly.
Hermione’s heart cracked open.
Everyone wanted him.
Everyone wondered about him.
But he looked for her.
And she didn’t know what to do with that.
She forced a smile that felt far too fragile.
“Congratulations, Ron.”
His grin widened, bright as summer.
“Couldn’t’ve done it without you yelling at me during practice.”
“I don’t yell,” she said weakly.
He laughed—warm, fond, unbearably endearing.
“Hermione. You definitely yell.”
The crowd surged again, and this time his teammates didn’t drag him back into celebration—they hooked their arms around him and started hauling him toward the changing rooms, shouting something about post-match strategy and “Oi, Weasley, c’mon before McLaggen steals your shower!”
Ron stumbled after them, laughing, but—his eyes stayed on her.
Even as he was pulled away.
Even when he had to twist his shoulders to avoid a stray broomstick.
Even when Ginny shoved his head down playfully to keep him moving.
He kept looking back.
For as long as he could.
And then he disappeared into the tunnel.
Hermione stood alone by the pitch, heart pounding, trying not to drown in it.
Everybody wanted him.
Everybody saw how brilliant he was.
But none of them—none of them—loved him the way she did.
And she hated the gold rush for it.
~
The Gryffindor common room was exploding.
Red and gold banners dangled from every possible beam. Someone had dumped an entire box of Exploding Whiz-Poppers into the fireplace. Butterbeer caps littered the floor like confetti. The air hummed with victory, voices, heat.
And of course—of course.
“WEASLEY IS OUR KING! WEASLEY IS OUR KING!”
The whole House was screaming it.
Shouting themselves hoarse over him.
Over Ron.
Her Ron.
Hermione stood near the back wall, hands wrapped around a butterbeer she hadn’t touched. She had planned—really, honestly planned—to be supportive. Quiet. Just happy for him.
Until she saw him.
Ron was in the center of the room, shoulders flushed, curls wild, surrounded by teammates drumming on the tables.
Dean was banging on a cauldron with his wand.
Ginny was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.
Even McLaggen looked like he’d been hexed with permanent admiration.
And then Peakes and Seamus grabbed Ron under the arms and hoisted him straight off the floor, roaring with victory.
Ron’s feet left the ground.
His head tipped back in stunned laughter.
He was glowing—utterly, impossibly glowing.
He looked like someone carved out of triumph and firelight.
Hermione felt her breath catch, like someone had knocked into her chest.
What must it have been like, she thought helplessly, to grow up this beautiful—and never know it?
Because Ron hadn’t grown up that way.
He hadn’t grown up basking in admiration.
He hadn’t grown up with people fighting to lift him onto their shoulders.
He’d grown up second-guessing every good thing about himself.
Shrinking beside Bill’s effortless glamour, Charlie’s rugged charm, the twins’ chaotic magnetism.
He’d grown up thinking he was the spare Weasley—too tall, too freckled, too unsure.
So seeing him now—the room roaring for him, his cheeks flushed,his smile unguarded and bright—it made something inside her ache in the most devastating way.
Because he was beautiful.
He always had been.
He just… hadn’t known.
Hermione had watched him grow into himself, year by year—awkward limbs turning steady, shyness sharpening into wit, uncertainty melting into something quietly confident and dazzling.
He hadn’t grown up knowing he was handsome.
He hadn’t grown up expecting attention.
He’d grown up flinching from it.
Which made all of this—the cheering, the singing, the adoration—so much more overwhelming.
For him.
For her.
Ron was finally lowered back to the ground, laughing breathlessly, pushing his hair back—hair that fell in perfect, tumbling pieces, one lock after another sliding across his forehead like they’d all agreed on the order beforehand.
It always fell like that.
Effortless.
Unfairly soft-looking.
Dominoes collapsing in slow motion.
Hermione’s pulse stumbled.
Ridiculous.
Humiliating.
Inevitable.
Her mind turned him into folklore.
That was the worst part.
Because in her head—in the private places she’d never confessed—Ron Weasley was already a legend.
Her legend.
He was hers in the secret, delusional way girls fall in love quietly:
in glances stolen over textbooks, in the way his laugh rewired her ribs, in the quiet certainty that she knew him more completely than anyone else possibly could.
She knew how he chewed his quill when he was thinking.
She knew how he slept curled on his side in the dorm.
She knew how his voice softened when he spoke just to her.
He didn’t need the chanting crowd.
He didn’t need the glory.
Hermione had been in awe of him long before any of them.
Before Quidditch.
Before victory.
Before this sudden rush of attention.
Hermione tried to stay where she was—sensible, grounded, rational, Hermione-ish.
But she couldn’t look away.
And then—Ron saw her.
From across the room, he turned mid-laugh, eyes scanning the crowd until they found her standing alone in the corner.
His whole face softened.
He nudged Harry with his elbow, muttered something, and slipped away from the pack.
Hermione’s heart hammered.
He walked toward her—slow, unsure, almost shy again—and every step made it harder to breathe.
“Hermione,” he said breathlessly, still grinning. “You’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding,” she lied.
“You are,” he said, stepping closer. His hand brushed her elbow, warm and tentative. “C’mere—come celebrate with us.”
He tugged lightly, trying to pull her toward the center of the chaos where their friends were shouting his name.
She couldn’t move.
“Hermione,” he laughed softly, leaning in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. “I want you with me.”
That did something catastrophic to her nervous system.
Maybe it was Gryffindor courage.
Maybe it was years of yearning for her handsome best friend.
Maybe it was the fact that everyone else suddenly wanted him and she couldn’t bear the thought of staying in the shadows one moment longer.
But before her brain could catch up with her heart—
Hermione leaned in and kissed him.
She rose onto her toes—he was so tall—and caught his Quidditch robes, pulling him down to meet her.
Right there.
Right in the middle of the roaring common room.
In front of a hundred Gryffindors.
His butterbeer slipped from his hands and hit the carpet with a dull thud.
Ron froze—and then melted into the kiss, warm and stunned and unbelievably gentle.
His hand slid to her waist.
Her fingers curled tighter in the front of his robes.
For one perfect second, the room fell away.
No crowd.
No celebration.
No gold rush.
Just Ron.
When she finally pulled back, the common room erupted—
But this time the cheering wasn’t for a Quidditch match.
Somewhere behind her, a very Irish voice—almost certainly Seamus—shouted, “FINALLY!”
Ron’s face was a shade of red she had never seen on him before.
He blinked at her.
Then again.
Then, in a small, bewildered voice:
“…Hermione?”
She wanted to run. She wanted to vanish under her bed.
She wanted to grab him by the front of his robes and kiss him again and again and again.
Instead she stood there, still breathless, still shaking from courage she didn’t know she possessed.
A little later—after Harry had dragged Dean away from trying to start a second chant, and after the room had exploded into speculation—Ron managed to corner her by the staircase.
He rubbed the back of his neck, ears flaming. “Hermione… what—what was that?”
She swallowed. Hard. “A kiss.”
He huffed a nervous laugh. “Yeah. I—I noticed. But… why? Why did you…?”
Hermione lifted her chin, even as her heart thudded like a trapped bird.
“It wasn’t part of the gold rush.”
Ron blinked. “What?”
“It wasn’t because everyone else suddenly wants you,” she said, voice low but steady. “It wasn’t about winning or crowds or chants or any of that.”
Ron stared at her like she’d just moved the Earth.
She took a breath. Soft, certain, honest.
“I didn’t kiss you because they were looking at you,” she said. “I kissed you because I’ve been looking at you.”
Ron’s breath caught.
“And,” she added, cheeks warm, “because I didn’t want anyone to think they could rush toward you before I did.”
Something broke open in Ron’s expression—something bright and stunned and so tender it made her dizzy.
“Hermione,” he whispered, stepping a little closer, “you—you like me.”
“I more than like you,” she said, voice trembling.
Ron blinked once.
Twice.
Then he smiled—a slow, amazed, golden smile that lit up every inch of him.
“Well,” he murmured, “good. Because I more than like you too.”
And he kissed her again—this time without the crowd, without the noise, without anything but the truth between them.
FIN