once again: it’s true, i’m not original enough to come up with my own characters. these belong to someone else.

That night, Ron dreamt.

He was in a dark room, four solid walls barely visible at the edges of the emptiness surrounding him. It was cell-like, though lacking the barred window and small squeaky bed. He looked around slowly, trying to see everything, but it was all blurry with darkness.

And he wasn’t alone.

"Hullo?" he cautioned, his voice hollow in the vacuous room.

"It’s me," said a soft female voice.

Hermione.

He squinted around the room but couldn’t see her. "What's going on?"

He heard the sound of footsteps as she approached him. "Well, it's quite obvious, isn't it?"

He rolled his eyes, even though she wouldn’t be able to see it. "Depends on what you mean by 'it'."

"We're in a room without a door."

"So it seems. What's obvious about that?"

He heard her sigh impatiently. "Ron, have you never heard of a metaphor?"

The footsteps stopped and Ron could finally make out her figure, inches from him and noticeably lacking clothing.

He hesitated for a moment, then the corner of his mouth turned up and he decided to run with it. It's my dream, after all.

He drank in the sight of her. The light was scarce, making shadows dance on her body, and she was more beautiful than he had ever imagined.

Well, he surmised, since this is my dream, I could just— He reached out a hand and traced a path from her cheek, sliding softly down her neck. She tilted her chin for better access and her eyes slid shut in enjoyment.

His hand continued to travel down her body, making a lazy circle around one breast. Her lips opened, her breath escaping in a gasp, and Ron nearly lost track of himself. Then he turned his attention back to her breast, circling it with the tips of his fingers, slowly getting closer to her nipple. He watched, fascinated, as her cheeks grew pink, and couldn't resist leaning down to kiss her exposed neck. She let out a light moan and he felt himself become short of breath.

She was so beautiful and he wanted her so badly. Suddenly he was struck by a thought— This is a dream. I can do whatever I want.

This idea aroused him almost as much as the rest of the situation and he felt an urge to cackle with glee. He claimed her lips with such wanton fervor he expected her to push him away. But she didn't—she kissed him back. He kissed her harder, burying his fingers in her hair and pulling her into him. His erection pressed against her stomach and he groaned into her mouth.

Then he felt her hands on him, ridding him of his clothing with surreal ease. And he didn't want to wait any longer. My dream, damn it! He gathered her against him and lifted her up, her back to the wall, something he knew in the back of his mind would only work in fantasies. Her legs wrapped around him and suddenly he was inside her, with a sense of bliss unparalleled by anything else. His eyes closed of their own volition as the world narrowed down to this one sensation, this one need, and he began to move within her.

His eyes flew open as he felt her moving with him. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed and he swore he'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life. They found a rhythm together and Ron's breathing became hitched and Hermione started mumbling incoherencies and they moved faster and he was just about to cry out her name when she shivered around him and cried—

"Oh gods, Harry! Yes!"

—and he woke with a groan, his heart thumping in his chest and telltale stickiness in his pyjamas. He closed his eyes and cursed, willing his breathing to slow.

What the hell was that about? He ran a hand through his hair, trying to clear his head. He had been shagging Hermione, not such an unusual dream, but—

She had cried out Harry's name.

He shuddered.

Just a dream, Weasley. Just a dream.

He tried to shake it off. It couldn't possibly have any relation to reality, besides the oh-so-subtle metaphor. If Harry and Hermione had been involved he most certainly would have known about it. He wasn't daft; he would have noticed. And the twins had said—they had assured him—

And yet it stayed with him, in the back of his mind, for nearly a week. Through classes and quidditch practices, meals and restless fantasy-ridden nights, it pushed a nebulous anxiety into his consciousness.

Staring up at his scarlet canopy on the third night, utterly exhausted but unable to sleep, his mind slowly worked through all the possiblities—and he realized with a start that he wasn't worried about Harry, exactly. It was more like— His jaw clenched. It felt so true for me, my whole mind and body and soul focused on Hermione—and she hadn't reciprocated. The ripping point was not that she'd called out Harry's name, but that she hadn't called out Ron's. It portended something Ron didn't want to think about.

He felt entirely fuzzy in the head, like he needed to blink a few hundred times or rub his eyes or shake the whole world into making sense. The encouraging words of the twins, the berating words of Hermione and the explosive images of the dream kept messing about in his head uncontrollably and he had no idea which to believe.

The world, meantime, continued on about its business. Hermione studied, Harry played quidditch, Malfoy sneered— Round and round it went, just like normal, totally incongruous with the swirling mockery of reality in Ron's head.

Finally, whilst taking sporadic notes in Charms a few days later, he came to decide that the whole dream had just been the product of a randy, paranoid personality. He scolded himself for being so shaken up. Honestly, using dreams to predict reality. I'm in danger of becoming as fruity as Trelawny.

So he let it go. Mostly. Wrenching pain became mere twinges when he saw Harry & Hermione bent over a book together or sharing a laugh. Everything between the three of them was normal as normal could be.

But this didn't mean he'd forgotten the dream, nor Hermione's rough words after the quidditch game. Even memories of the twins' assurances couldn't change the fact that every time he thought of approaching Hermione alone, his hands started to sweat in an entirely unpleasant manner and the sound of her crying out Harry's name filled his ears. Not worth it, Weasley, the voice warned him. Not worth it. And, much to his own contempt, he agreed.

***

The common room was buzzing as Ron wandered down the stairs, fresh and clean from a post-quidditch shower. He had reached the second to last step when he heard Harry’s low voice from the spot just around the corner, one of the only semi-private seats in the room.

"Hermione, you’ve got to stop all this nonsense with Ron."

Said Ron stopped dead in his tracks, stomach churning. This could be very,very bad.

"Oh, please, Harry! Did Ginny put you up to this?" Hermione said, an obvious attempt to avoid the subject.

"She didn't have to."

"Well, then, don’t let’s get started," Hermione said in low, annoyed tones. "Especially not in the common room on a Friday night."

"For Christ’s sake, Hermione, everyone knows already." Harry sounded almost angry.

"So what if they do know?" Hermione replied, as if she didn’t give a damn.

Ron felt ill and leaned a hand heavily against the wall. I should go. I should turn around right now. I should--

"How daft are you?" Harry would have none of Hermione’s avoiding. His voice rose. "Do you think you can just waltz around this school in your randy little bubble without dealing with the consequences?"

Ron was nonplussed. Harry's vehemence didn't make sense.

"What consequences?" Hermione suddenly sounded angry also. She doesn’t take well to being called daft.

"Are you really that delusional?" Harry voice was slightly less harsh than his words.

Jesus. Ron nearly caught himself defending Hermione, then thought better of it.

"Pardon me?" Hermione said acidly.

"Hermione! You are quite possibly the cleverest witch in all of Britain, yet you fail to see what is painfully—and I do mean painfully—obvious."

"Oh, and you’re going to fill me in, are you?" Her disdain would have slain a lesser man. Then she sighed, and her voice lowered. "Harry, please. We’ve already gone through this."

So they've talked about this before. Ron's heart thumped in his chest.

"Which part? That you’re being completely ridiculous or that you’re being completely selfish?"

"Honestly, Harry, I won’t apologize anymore about this! I cannot name this, I cannot explain this. And I really don’t want to! I can’t even slow this down, let alone stop this." She sighed. "If I had any sense, I guess I’d fear this. I guess I would be more cautious. But I can't, Harry. I just can't. It just -- is."

Ron's jaw clenched. Deal with it, Weasley. His head began to ache, right behind his eyes.

"Hermione," Harry’s said sharply. "You’re being terrible and I won’t stand for it."

Ron couldn't help but agree.

"You have no right," she shot back in menacing tones, "to judge my actions."

"No, actually," Harry retorted, "when you’re breaking my best friend’s heart, I think I do have that right." Ron wanted to kiss Harry for taking his side—then realized the gravity of what Hermione had just heard.

She scoffed. "Oh, please. I’m not breaking anyone’s heart, except maybe Molly Weasley’s." Ron blinked at the admission—and at the guilty tone that had crept into her voice. What she said next he almost missed. "And perhaps my own."

Ron nearly fell down the last stair.

"Christ, Hermione! You’re being so ridiculous! He loves you!"

Ron put a hand to his head, which was starting to throb.

"Then why hasn’t he said so?" Hermione snapped.

Ron’s swallowed convulsively and his head snapped up, the pain gone. The magnitude of her statement had not been lost on him.

"You pushed him away before he had the chance! You think he’s going to risk it after that last scene? He’s not up for another brutal public dressing-down."

"All right, all right, I’ll concede that that was a little harsh. But—" She quickly continued before Harry could say ‘I told you so’. "—he had plenty of chances the first and second times we—" She stopped. "You know." Her voice took on a frustrated tone. "He could have said something remotely related to love but he most definitely did not. So why should I risk it either?"

The silence roared in Ron’s ears. He just hadn't ever considered that it wouldn't be enough.

"I have no answer to that, Hermione," Harry said softly. But I think Ron does. And I think he deserves to be talked to instead of strewn about like yesterday’s newspaper."

"No." She sounded petulant.

"Hermione…" Harry warned, his patience obviously running out.

"God dammit, Harry, I am not some child you can order around and cluck your tongue at disapprovingly." Ron was impressed— He had never though Harry could get Hermione angry enough to swear.

"You’re bloody well acting like one."

She sighed. "Will you please just let it go?"

"Will you please just talk to him?" His voice was softer.

"Harry …"

"You have to eventually, Hermione."

"Yes, of course." Her voice was small. There was a pause. Her words became barely discernable. "It frightens me to death, you know."

Ron's stomach tightened. He wanted nothing more than to grab her and reassure her with every ounce of his being that there was nothing to be afraid of.

"I know." Harry paused. "But just think about it, all right? And at the very least, be honest with him. Don’t brush him off any more."

"Tall order."

"Don’t I know it. I’m also dating a Weasley, as you might recall."

Ron rolled his eyes.

Hermione sighed dramatically. "They can be pains, can’t they?"

The corner of Ron's mouth turned up.

"Most definitely." Harry was quick to agree.

"And brilliant, charming, and delectable," Hermione added in a light voice.

His smile widened.

"And that," Harry agreed in a mock-serious tone.

"Delectable?" he asked rogue-ishly, walking around the corner with his eyebrow raised. "You wouldn’t happen to be talking about me, would you?"

Harry smirked. "I most certainly am not." He shot a glance at Hermione. "However…" He raised an eyebrow. "I can’t speak for Hermione here."

Hermione tossed her head and glared at Harry. Then she glanced at Ron, who smirked at her, eyes twinkling. "Don't look so smug. I didn't say anything you didn't already know."

Ron sat on the arm of her chair, purposefully entering her personal space to play his ace. "That depends on how much of the conversation you think I overheard."

Hermione's eyes widened. "What exactly are you implying, Ron?"

He put a hand to his heart and affected innocence. "Why, whatever do you mean?" Harry snickered.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You know perfectly well what I mean."

Ron grinned. "And you know perfectly well that I'm not going to tell you." Harry's snicker had become a full-on laugh by this point.

"Fine," Hermione huffed, closing her book. "I'm going to the library to do some research." Harry and Ron exchanged smiles, and she stood up and glared at them. "Oh, shove off, the both of you." She strode out the portrait hole.

Ron watched her figure as she walked away, the smile still on his face, then turned to Harry. "That was brilliant!" he exclaimed, sliding into the chair Hermione had just vacated. "I mean, at first, I was ready to kill you for telling her but you knew! You knew what she'd say!"

Harry shook his head and looked at Ron. "No, actually, I didn't."

Ron looked at Harry as if he'd just spoken Gobbledygook. "What do you mean, you didn't?"

Harry looked tired. "I mean, I didn't know that she loved you. Ginny had hinted at something but—" He paused, then shrugged. "I never can be sure about Hermione."

Ron looked at Harry for a moment, then shrugged. "True," he said. "Neither can I." There was a moment of silence, then a smile recaptured his face. "But gods, Harry, I love her."

Harry smiled gently at him. "I know you do, Ron."

More silence. Then, "Thank you."

Harry studied him, then shrugged. "No problem, mate. No problem at all."

--------

chapter largely based on 'shameless' by ani difranco.

it's funny how smut becomes easier to write when you have a sex life.

‘everybody i know has a grapefruit for a head.’ marshel copple