Chapter Text
It starts with the rain.
October at Hogwarts always smells like wet stone and burning wood, and Hermione has taken over a corner table in the library, parchment neatly stacked, three textbooks open at once.
Ron drops into the chair across from her with a dramatic sigh.
"You're going to blind," he mutters.
Hermione doesn't look up. "That's not how eyesight works."
"You know what I mean."
He nudges her ankle under the table with his foot.
She stills.
It's not the nudge that surprises her. They've always been close, shoulder's brushing, passing books, bumping knees under desks.
But now she notices it.
The warmth through her stocking.
The deliberate way he doesn't move his foot back.
Her quill hesitates.
"You could at least pretend to care about Divination," Ron continues, flipping open his textbook with exaggerated misery. "She says I lack the 'proper aura for true Seer potential.'"
Hermione snorts. "That isn't a real qualification."
"She said some people have it and some don't," Ron mutters. "Apparently I don't."
He slouches lower in his chair, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Figures, though. I'm not exactly the mysterious, impressive type, am I?"
Hermione looks up at that.
There's something almost careless in the way he says it, like a joke.
But not entirely a joke.
"You're impressive when you want to be," she says automatically.
Ron blinks at her.
"I am?"
"Yes," she replies, as if it's obvious. "You're very good at practical magic. Professor Lupin's mentioned it. And you're quite quick thinking."
A faint flush creeps up Ron's ears.
"Oh."
He doesn't know what to do with that. With being seen like that.
"Well, he mutters glancing down at his textbooks again, "just don't expect anyone else to notice."
Hermione frowns. "That's ridiculous."
Ron shrugs, pretending indifference.
But the idea lingers, the quiet, persistent fear of being overlooked.
---
Later that week, when Crookshanks lunges at Scabbers for the first time in the common room, Ron's anger is real, but so is something else.
Hermione is kneeling on the floor, clutching her cat defensively.
"He's only playing!"
"He was not playing!" Ron snaps.
She looks exhausted. More than exhausted. Strained. The kind of strain that comes from carrying too much.
Ron notices.
He hates that he notices.
"Just- keep him away from Scabbers," he says, but his voice is less sharp now.
Hermione lifts her chin stubbornly. "Scabbers wouldn't be in danger if he weren't always hiding under furniture."
"That's because your cat's mental!"
"Crookshanks is very intelligent."
"Yeah? Well he's got a funny way of showing it!"
Harry mutters something about going to bed and wisely disappears.
They're alone again.
It's always worse when they're alone.
Hermione stands, Crookshanks still in her arms.
"You don't trust me," she says suddenly.
Ron frowns. "What?"
"You think I'd let something happen to Scabbers."
He opens his mouth to argue, then hesitates.
Because he doesn't think that.
Not really.
He thinks she's overworked. Stubborn. Blind when she believes she's right.
But he doesn't think she'd hurt him.
"I just-" Ron runs a hand through his hair. "He's all I've got, alright? I've had him since I was little."
Hermione's expression softens despite herself.
"I know."
The anger grains, leaving something rawer.
"You're never wrong, are you?" Ron mutters, not unkindly.
"That isn't true."
"It is."
She steps closer before she can stop herself.
"I don't want to fight with you."
That's the truth. And it costs her something to say it.
Ron looks at her differently then.
"I don't either."
There it is again, that strange quiet moment. The world shrinking to just the two of them and the fire crackling in the hearth.
He notices the faint shadows under her eyes.
She notices the way his voice drops when he's serious.
For one second, one impossible second, it feels like something might happen.
Instead, Crookshanks wriggles free and jumps to the armchair.
The spell breaks.
Ron clears his throat. "Just - keep him away from Scabbers."
Hermione nods.
"Alright."
It isn't resolved.
But it isn't cold either.
And later, lying in bed, Ron stares at the ceiling and thinks about the way she said, I don't want to fight with you.
And Hermione, wide awake in her four poster, presses her fingers to her own temple and thinks about the way his voice softened when he said, I don't either
They don't know what this is yet.
But it's growing.