Title: Black

Beta: Verity Grahams, and NerdGirl95

Prompt: Write about Ron's relationship with another student at Hogwarts (not Harry, Hermione or his siblings) for TQLFC

A/N: Based off of Padma's sudden interest in Ron when he was used as a hostage in the second task. Thought it'd be interesting.

10:43 PM

"Ron?"

He didn't see her until she spoke and even then it didn't shock him to see her. She was sitting on the bench next to the Great Hall, her legs crossed and her dark skin shadowed by the taper above her. Her eyes were black, not soulless nor lifeless. Instead, they were like two pristine stones of onyx that lit up with a purple flare when touched by candlelight. But, he couldn't say they were beautiful — he didn't have the heart to admit it. She was smiling at him, and he wanted to smile back, but he could see Hermione in the corner of his eye — staring, watching, wondering. He couldn't possibly understand what she was thinking. She was a girl, but she wasn't just any girl, she was Hermione.

Sometimes, Ron wondered if she was even a girl.

He turned his attention back to Padma, then, and gave her a short smile. A brief smile, one that was seen as polite, one that couldn't be taken as anything other than that — friendship. "Yeah?" He gnawed at his tongue and shifted his robes and hoped she didn't notice, but she must have. It was obvious; he was too obvious.

"Can you tell me how you did it?" She left it up for him to interpret, but he understood. It was always the same thing and as she twirled her hair between her fingers, staring up at him, waiting for him to tell her again. He wondered what was it that intrigued her. At the Yule Ball, he had gone with her as her partner, and he didn't need her to tell him that he wasn't exactly the best partner. Sure, he avoided her, but he was making sure Hermione was safe. Yeah, safe, that's what he was doing.

Padma was in front of him, now, and he could clearly see the chocolate brown rouge on her lips — she wasn't the type to dress up, he thought. She was speaking, but as he was gnawing at his lips and staring at hers, his mind drifted. He knew what she wanted; she wanted him — okay, she didn't, but she seemed sure interested in him. Or, rather, the image he portrayed.

"How I did what?" He didn't know if it was his best bet to play naive, but she seemed to enjoy the chase as if this was a game to her, and for a brief minute, he wondered if it was. He wouldn't be surprised; she is a Ravenclaw.

"You know, how did you survive?" When she had first asked, the pride went to his head, and he had improvised a story built on a foundation of half-truths. He wanted to be seen as a stalwart — rough with salt and pepper peach fuzz and as hard as the calluses between his forefinger and thumb, but he knew his palms were as smooth as silk. He wanted her to see him as more than just Harry Potter's best friend because he was more than that. At least, he thought he was.

So, Ron laughed until she joined him and placed a hand on her forearm, gazing anywhere but her eyes. Her eyes were like midnight and raven's wings. They were filled with a type of darkness that wasn't dark. They were sweet silence before dawn and responsibility. They were something he feared but didn't fear at the same time. But when he caught her eyes with his, he couldn't look away and neither could she. But, he couldn't help but notice that they weren't Hermione's eyes.

Hermione's eyes were a hickory colour, as rich as the earth's soil; stained with the colour of hot chocolate on a cold, winter night that wraps around you like a blanket; engulfs you in its warmth and makes you feel at home. Those deep pools of dark-cinnamon swirls seized the depth and heaviness of one thousand untold stories, which imprisoned the sweetness of saccharin chocolate and the bitterness of strong coffee. They consisted of raw emotion, and if you observe closely, they will reveal to you the exact thought that crosses the marvels of her brilliant mind. But, perhaps he was thinking too hard. Padma was one the prettiest girls in the school, and she was right in front of him.

He didn't need Hermione to get in the way of that. She was always in the way, anyway.

"It was terrible," he started, abruptly, and he watched as his low, goading tone enraptured her attention — it was something he wasn't used to, something he wanted to get used to. She was impatient as he continued, complaining about the temperature of the water and nodding off on different, unrelated subjects. She pressed her lips together into a thin line, and he cleared his throat, letting his mouth run dry with useless, fruitless, and senseless lies. "Did I ever tell you how one of the merpeople stole my socks? Well, one of them was gripping at my left sock, so I kicked its jaw, and it wouldn't let go so —"

Padma rolled her eyes at him, and Ron knew he had messed up. He always messes up. "Yes," she said, flatly, interrupting him as if she had been bored since the beginning. "You told me about eighteen times in the last four minutes, Ron."

But then the glare in her eyes dropped, and it was then that he could tell the difference between her and her sister. Padma wasn't as loud, and Padma wasn't there in front of him to climb the grapevine of popularity. She was quiet, and she was studious, and as she stared at him with sad eyes, he wanted to tell her that her eyes were beautiful. Perhaps, just perhaps, he should have paid more attention to her that night at the ball. She was something of a conundrum, but so was he at times. "Are you okay?"

Ron turned his head and admired the dark silhouette of Hermione for a minute, watching as she argued fervently with Harry. He didn't understand the dynamic he had with Padma, but he knew that whatever it was, he wanted to preserve it. "Yeah," and he turned his attention back to her and smiled — a smile bright enough to illuminate the ebbing waters of the Great Lake. "Never better."