HANG ON, THERE'S A STORY HERE?

DISCLAIMER: The Characters, Places, and all other Things that you know for a fact belong to J.K. Rowling really do belong to her. Only the crazy dialogue, situations and behavior that are so obviously OOC belong to me.


A/N: Thanks to Audrey for hitting me on the head, thereby removing my writer's block. :D

CHAPTER ONE - RON'S INSANE

Sometimes being Head Boy and Quidditch Captain can be a royal pain. Ronald Weasley learnt the hard way that scheduling Quidditch practice at six a.m., leading study sessions for Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T.s, going to class, organizing Hogsmeade weekend visits, presiding over Prefect's meetings with Hermione, and then patrolling the corridors before going to bed, can be quite a handful, even with hands as large as his. Especially today, the day before the final match against Slytherin for the Quidditch Cup. His nerves were stretched tightly and were starting to twitch feebly. It didn't help that he had been up till past midnight last night going over Gryffindor's strategy for the match. Understandably, he was ready to fall asleep on his feet by now.

He sat in his usual chair in the Gryffindor common room after dinner. His schoolbooks, Quidditch books, parchment, quill and ink were scattered on the table in front of him. But his eyes were trained on the fireplace, and he was completely oblivious to the fact that half of Gryffindor was studying, talking and laughing all around him. He didn't even spare half a glance at Harry and Ginny, who were whispering to each other and giggling, and probably holding hands, on the sofa in front of the fire. Aside from fatigue, he was feeling... he didn't know what, really. Perhaps a little discontented and a bit angry. Or was it that he was just... missing Hermione? But how could he miss her already when he was just sitting beside her in the Great Hall at dinner, popping pieces of her daintily cut-up steak into his mouth, and making her laugh at him and slap his hand away from her food at the same time?

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they were just finishing dessert when an eagle owl swooped into the Hall and dropped a letter on her plate, which caused her to jump up and go to her room, barely excusing herself. He recognized the owl -- it belonged to Viktor Krum. Viktor bloody Krum, who was the most popular Quidditch player in Europe. Viktor sodding Krum, who wrote to Hermione at least once every two weeks despite his busy schedule. Viktor buggering Krum, whom she insisted was just her friend. Ha. He noticed Hermione would drop whatever she was doing and would shut herself in her room whenever his letters came. Sometimes he noticed her looking vaguely happy after having read one of those damn letters. Other times she looked vaguely weepy. Each time he felt vaguely sick to his stomach.

Or maybe, he was just... but he couldn't be, could he? Nope. Not a chance. But then again, he was so familiar with the symptoms -- the reflexive clenching of his fists, the throbbing veins in his temples, the feverish feeling he knew was turning his ears red and his face slightly green. He was jealous. If he would only admit it to himself, he would see that he'd been jealous since fifth year of every boy that Hermione paid the slightest attention to. In fact, if he hadn't been denying his feelings, he would realize that jealousy had already formed part of his basic instincts, much like hunger, thirst and the need to sleep.

Or maybe, he was too preoccupied with one question, keeping him from focusing on anything else: who in hell asked that duck-footed git Krum to finish his seventh year at Hogwarts? That was the reason he became all cozy and close with Hermione. That was also the reason they had been writing to each other for almost three years now. They had the perfect excuse: they had been schoolmates. Ruddy, bloody, son of a... hellhound. Why couldn't that git have gone to Beauxbatons instead? It was also a good school, and there were veela there. Well, not full-blooded veela, but still... even half- or quarter-veela were stunningly beautiful, right? They should be good enough for the likes of Krum.

'Why does that duck-footed git keep elbowing in on my territory? First, he makes my fifth year a living nightmare, and now he... he...' Ron spluttered furiously. 'Just what the hell does he want to do? Does he really want to try...' What? Try... stealing Hermione from him? Wait. That would assume she was his to begin with. But she wasn't, was she? Would she want to be his? Would he want her to belong to him? Why was he thinking of her as if she was a piece of property? Why was he even thinking of her at all?

"Argh!" he cried out in frustration. Several heads turned to look at him.

"Anything wrong?" someone (Ron didn't recognize the voice), a seventh year, probably Dean Thomas, called out.

Ron suddenly snapped out of his stupor. "No, no, nothing's wrong. Just worried about the Quidditch final tomorrow, is all," he answered in the general direction of the person who asked him.

"We'll win it, don't worry, Ron," someone else called out.

"Thanks," he muttered. He settled back in his chair and thought, 'that's it, I'm slowly going insane.'

He probably started going insane during the last week of summer vacation before their fifth year. Hermione had come the day after Harry arrived at the Burrow, and all three of them (to his mind, at least) were set to have some fun before term started. It had started out as a typical morning for him, that is, until his mum had cornered him and sent him out to degnome the garden. Harry had helped him, but it was quite a job. He had been hurling gnomes over the fence for nearly two hours, and he was feeling as hot as if a dragon had snorted fire on him. He had taken off his shirt and let the breeze cool him for a bit. Suddenly, Ginny came running out of the house and into the garden.

"She's here!" Ginny had called out.

"Who?" He had answered -- stupidly, it seemed, because Harry and Ginny started to snicker.

"The Queen, Ron. What do you mean, 'who?' Hermione, of course!" Harry said.

"But, isn't she a bit early? I thought she'd be arriving by lunch."

"Obviously, she's changed her mind. She can do that, you know. Probably missed you something awful."

He remembered thinking that even back then, he caught an insinuating tone in Ginny's voice that didn't quite sit well with him. But he had dismissed it by convincing himself Hermione missed him and Harry. Of course that was what Ginny meant, wasn't it? Before he could answer that question, he had been yanked back to reality when--

"Don't just stand there! Come on!" Harry had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him inside the house, not even giving him time to pick up his discarded shirt.

At the time, he thought, 'oh well, it doesn't matter. It's just Hermione, right?' But since then, he had learnt a painful lesson: he no idea how wrong he was. When he saw her standing there, having just come out of the fireplace after her journey via Floo powder, two hours earlier than expected, and wearing a... sundress, was what Harry called it, his eyes nearly fell off their sockets.

For several moments, his fifteen-year-old brain lost the ability to think. What in hell did she do to her skin to make it all... tanned and... and... luscious like that? What did she think she was doing, wearing that skimpy, nearly transparent piece of cloth that made her tanned skin glow like burnished copper? And what business was it of hers to hug everyone in sight while wearing that dress, even Fred and George? Everyone, that is, except him. All right, granted that he was sweaty and shirtless at the time, but still, he expected a warmer greeting than "hi, Ron." It was unfair! Harry was just as sweaty and had a huge splatter of dirt on the front of his shirt. Yet she gave Harry a hug. But for him, not even a handshake. He could have sworn he'd wiped off his hands on his jeans. He didn't have any earthworms under his fingernails or anything repulsive like that. Yet, she treated him as if, well, he wasn't that important, or... worse, it didn't really matter whether he existed or not. She had even laughed and joked with the twins, who were leering at her like the horndogs that they were. But if he even tried to act the way the twins did towards her, she would have hexed him to kingdom come without a second thought. Right. He could barely stop himself from throwing a tantrum like a testy toddler. Sweaty Harry was still worth hugging, leering Fred and George were still funny, Ginny was a girl and so could do no wrong, his mum was "Aunt Molly," and he was... nothing. She'd acted that way all the time she was at the Burrow that summer, nearly four years ago. He'd thought he would explode with frustration.

He still felt frustrated the week after that, when they were aboard the Hogwarts Express on the way back to school. Every time he had looked at her, she had looked away. She looked out the window, at Harry, at the door, up at the luggage compartment, everywhere else except at him. But every time he looked away, he felt her eyes on him, burning holes into his skin. At the time, he concluded it must be some plan she had thought up to drive him mad. It took the familiar atmosphere of Hogwarts to bring everything back to normal between them -- normal being the constant bickering and teasing and occasional blow-ups, followed by the usual unspoken agreements to forget what was said and done during the heat of the moment. Almost four years had gone by, and still they were no closer to ending this -- this -- game. Or was it... a mating ritual?

"ARGH!" he cried out again, in a louder, more frustrated voice.

"Now, what's wrong?" another seventh year, probably Seamus Finnigan (Ron thought that all the voices he heard sounded the same), called out.

"Nothing, nothing. I was just worried that the Hawkshead Formation would put Ginny in a very dangerous position opposite Zabini," he answered.

"Don't worry about me, Ron. You know Colin, Dennis and I will improvise a bit once we're up there. Besides, Zabini's a coward. Won't act without backup, that one. You've seen it too many times before, right?" Ginny answered reassuringly.

"I guess. Thanks, Gin."

"You know, all this worrying is wearing you out. Why don't you go up and get some rest?"

"I can't. I'm on patrol duty tonight with Hermione. I'm just waiting for her to come down."

"I'll take your place tonight, Ron. Ginny's right, you could use a bit of rest," Harry said.

"'S all right, mate. I'll do it. You know how Hermione gets when anybody messes up her duty roster."

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Now you two stop acting like mum and go back to whatever it is you're doing. Except if it's snogging. Or talking about shagging. Or even thinking about shagging. You hear me?"

"Yes, dad," Harry and Ginny answered in mock-solemn voices.

"Shut it, you two," Ron growled. He leaned back in his chair.

His thoughts went back to the day of Hermione's arrival at the Burrow, that summer before the start of their fifth year. She and Ginny had sat on a blanket in the backyard to watch him, Harry and the twins as they played a makeshift game of Quidditch to while away the time before dinner. But since there were only four of them, Fred and Harry played Chasers, while he and George were the Keepers. Hermione jumped and squealed whenever Fred had scored against him as he kept his and Harry's goal. The way her body moved as she jumped up and down had been enough to distract him to the point where Fred had scored five times in a row, earning him a cuff upside the head from Harry when the game ended with their massacre at the twins' hands.

As he remembered what had happened that night, he wondered how he had kept himself from going insane and having to be hauled off to St. Mungo's. Hermione had worn that damned sundress all day, even to dinner. She sat across from him at the table, and he could barely put food into his mouth, as he was watching her talk and laugh with his family while still continuing to ignore him. He noticed that she barely ate as well, but was too fascinated by the gracefulness of her movements to bring the matter up. His fifteen-year-old, hormone-charged body was burning -- for Hermione. As soon as he decently could, he excused himself to take a very long, very cold shower. The next day, with thoughts of her in that bloody sundress still haunting him, he exercised to near-exhaustion, then took another long, cold shower. Those activities quickly became his daily routine in a desperate attempt to control his body's reaction to her. Fat lot of good it did him. Four years later, his nineteen-year-old, hormone-charged body was still burning -- for the same girl.

ARGH!! This time, he remembered to clamp his hands over his mouth to prevent any sound from coming out. Right. It was official. He HAD gone insane, and the reason for his insanity was his best friend Hermione. How the bloody hell can that be?! It was simply wrong, not to mention, er, pervy. He could still recall the feeling of being tingly all over whenever he thought of her tanned complexion. It suited her. There was a coppery hue to her skin then that made her hair shine as though it had golden highlights, and made her eyes sparkle as though they were pools of liquid chocolate with flecks of amber. At the time, he had thought of what it would be like to trail kisses along that coppery skin and make those chocolate-amber eyes close... and tonight he thought of it again. He almost slapped his forehead for thinking highly improper thoughts about his best friend. Thoughts such as bending her over the back of the common room sofa and snogging her senseless...

'NO, NO, NO!' one part of his brain screamed at him.

'YES, OH GOD, YES, HERMIONE!' his, er, horndoggy part of the brain, answered.

He shook his head rather violently in an effort to silence the screaming voices. He had to think. Was it all just -- just -- animal lust on his part? Or was there something more? Well, of course, there was a lot more to it than that. He had been deliriously happy that Hermione hadn't gone to Bulgaria to visit that duck-footed git. He had overheard her admit to "Aunt Molly" that she'd spent a great deal of time outdoors that summer, although she and her parents didn't go on a vacation trip at all. Why, the sly little witch was a bloody clever actress! She merely smiled like a Sphinx every time he asked her whether she accepted dear old Vicky's invitation. And to think his brain had been in serious danger of combusting in a mixture of anxiety and exasperation. He wanted so badly to strangle her. Instead, he almost whooped for joy right there by the kitchen door, but was able to stop himself just in time -- after all, he was eavesdropping, and it wouldn't do for him to get caught.

But it wasn't just that. He'd also been thoroughly sympathetic with her fears about any possible attempt by Voldemort (yes, Voldemort! He had learnt to say the damn name at last!) against Harry. She'd started him thinking about keeping not just Harry safe, but also her and Ginny as well. He never told anyone, but that summer, he swore to himself to do everything he could to protect them from that point onwards. He fully intended to do well in Defense Against the Dark Arts so he could do whatever it would take to keep them out of harm's way. In fact, he dug up all the Dark Arts schoolbooks he could find around the house, even the ones by that fraud Lockhart, in the hope that he could pick up something, anything, useful there. He even went as far as nicking all two of Percy's books on the subject (he left behind all the other books spouting bollocks about how wizards can go about gaining power and influence and changing the course of history). Since Hermione ignored him, he was able to sit quietly under a tree and read for an hour or two each day. Sometimes, he would fall asleep while reading, but that didn't happen more than... all right, all right, four out of every five times. But still, he had learnt a few things that eventually helped him get top marks on his Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s.

Aside from that, he'd been mature enough to refrain from teasing her when they found out she'd been made Prefect. But then again, that may have had more to do with the fact that he and Harry had also been made Prefects, much to Harry's surprise, and his disgust. It was only his mum's obvious pride in him that restrained him from beating up the twins for calling out "here comes another pinhead" every time he passed by. He finally stopped being annoyed about the whole thing when he found out Dumbledore had hand-picked all the students who had been made Prefect that year, and that it was part of Hogwarts' response to the return of Voldemort, in an effort to maintain safety and order in the school. But what gave him complete and utter satisfaction over the whole thing was the fact that Draco Malfoy was not made Prefect.

He stopped reminiscing for a moment and glanced at his watch. Two hours to go before they had to face each other for their patrol duty tonight. He couldn't help but look back at all the other times they spent together that had contributed to his present state of insanity.