A/N: I'm reposting Stranded! It hasn't changed in the least since the last time I posted it, but I was surprised that in just that past few days since it disappeared from the site that several people have been asking me for it. This, of course, rather surprised (and pleased) me so I decided that since there was a demand that I would just put it back up.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter etc. are the intellectual property of JKR; no infringement is intended.

Chapter 1: The Derailment

White flakes littered the sky on that cool January morning, and London had never looked more beautiful. The car that carried Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger was headed towards King's Cross Station where they were to take the Hogwarts Express back to school after two weeks of Christmas vacation.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Hermione remarked, her eyes dreamily scanning over the snowy scenery. "I always love it when it snows; it's like a piece of heaven making its way to earth." She glanced at Ron, waiting for a response no doubt, but none came. "Aren't you going to say something?" she asked. Ron had been quiet since they'd left Hermione's parents at Diagon Alley.

"I'm sorry, were you saying something?" he asked her, a flush slowly creeping up his neck and ears.

"I suppose it wasn't important," Hermione huffed, turning back to the window.

Now in their seventh year at Hogwarts, the two's friendship had changed little from the way it had been when they'd first met; they still had blazing rows every other day, and they were both still afraid of admitting that they had feelings for each other although they were both aware of the tension that had been present between both of them since the middle of their fourth year.

"Thanks for having me over for Christmas, Hermione," Ron broke the silence, his eyes moving in her direction for a second. She still looked the same as she had when they'd first met with her bushy brown hair and chocolate eyes, but she was taller now, and she'd filled-out, as was inevitable for anyone to do when one grew up. Still, she was more beautiful to Ron than ever before, and she became more beautiful every day he knew her.

Hermione was surprised to hear Ron speak. She had invited both he and Harry to spend the Christmas holidays with her and her parents but Harry had preferred to remain at Hogwarts with Ginny Weasley…whom Hermione suspected he secretly fancies. The rest of the Weasley family had all been headed to Paris to celebrate the opening of the first international installment of the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes chain. The French store was the eighth of the series where in Britain there were stores in Hogsmeade and London and five others spread around the country. Mrs. Weasley had been especially proud of the twins' success and was the first to admit that perhaps she'd been wrong to be so hard on Fred and George. "You're welcome, Ron," Hermione answered him. "It's me who's glad you came. Spending Christmas without Harry was bizarre enough, spending it without both of you would have been unbearable," she told him, knowing that as bizarre as it had been not to have Harry about, she was rather glad that she and Ron had been able to spend time together…just the two of them. She placed her hand on top of Ron's and he gave it a slight squeeze; their eyes met and it looked as if Ron was going to say something. He seemed to be hesitating, making0up his mind; finally he opened his mouth to speak.

"King's Cross, folks," the taxi driver interrupted, and Ron's mouth snapped shut. He and Hermione got out of the car, and Hermione handed a few bills to the driver who helped them with their bags and Hermione's trunk. There had been no need to bring their trunks as they were only gone for a few weeks and the workload had been light, but Hermione had brought hers regardless, having wanted to read every imaginable book known to man.

"Here, let me help you with your trunk," Ron told her, grabbing one end of it as she took the other. He had only brought a knapsack, which was presently slung over one of his shoulders. Hermione couldn't help but notice how grown-up he looked. At eighteen, Ron was now well over six-feet tall, with broad shoulders, and a sturdy yet athletic physique. His hair was stylishly short and his face had matured, his strong jaw sprinkled with a little red stubble…he had undoubtedly neglected to shave that morning, and Hermione longed to reach-up and touch his cheek with her fingertips.

"Hermione?" Ron's voice broke through her thoughts and she realized that they were still holding the trunk without having moved, yet. She blinked a few times to clear her head.

"Sorry," she muttered, as they made their way in to the station and towards the barrier separating platforms 9 and 10.

"On three?" Ron asked, and Hermione nodded. Ron counted to three and they silently walked through the barrier, emerging on the other side where a crimson steam engine stood stationary under a sign bearing the numbers 9 ¾. Surprisingly little students had made the journey home that Christmas; the platform was unusually empty. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was still about and parents preferred to have their children remain under the magical protection surrounding Hogwarts. It had taken a lot of convincing on Ron's part for his parents to agree to let him go home with Hermione.

Ron lifted Hermione's trunk onto the train, and they took seats at the very back in the last compartment. No one else was in the last car and Ron stretched-out over two seats of the compartment while Hermione sat opposite, scowling slightly.

"What?" Ron grinned, "I'm a growing boy, you can't possibly expect me to sit all cramped-up for the entire journey; it's bad for my posture," he told her. Hermione shook her head knowing full well that posture had nothing to do with it. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the train, having pulled-out of the station, was now making its way along the English countryside. Ron was looking out the window where large snowflakes were hitting the pane angrily.

"You were right, before; it really is beautiful," he said, referring to the snow. So he had been listening, Hermione realized. She was secretly pleased, and promised herself she wouldn't be so quick to judge him in the future.

For the next few hours, Ron dozed while Hermione caught up on some reading. If anything, rather than letting up, the snow had gotten heavier. They had been on their way for about four hours and in that time Hermione had finished half of her book. She shut it and ran her hand over her eyes as she arched her back stretching. She hated reading in the train—it gave her a headache—but NEWTs were quickly approaching and she needed to be as prepared as she could be. She glanced at the opposite seat where Ron lay snoring softly. His neck was bent at an odd angle and it would surely be sore when he awoke. Hermione was about to wake him when a slight jerk on the part of the train did the job for her.

"What the bloody...ow!" came Ron's muffled expletive as he woke up in a start and felt the shooting pain in his neck

"So much for your posture," Hermione held back a giggle. One side of Ron's hair was stuck to his head whereas it stuck up at odd ends on the other.

"Bugger-off, Hermione, can't you see I'm in severe pain, here?" he whined, wincing as he gingerly turned his head, trying to work out the kink to no apparent avail.

"Oh, you big baby; come here," Hermione said in an exasperated voice as she rose from her seat and came to stand in front of him. "Turn around," she ordered.

"Why?" he asked, suddenly suspicious of her motives. Rather than reply, Hermione rolled her eyes and took his shoulders, turning him so that he was facing the wall. Her hands were cool against the warm skin of his neck and when she started kneading the muscles of his shoulders with her fingertips, Ron thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

"Hmm," he muttered, as she hit a particularly sensitive spot and magicked away pain and discomfort. "You know," he told her, "if that magic thing doesn't work-out for you, you should seriously consider becoming a masseuse." One of Hermione's hands temporarily left his shoulder and connected lightly with the back of his head as she smacked him. "What?" Ron asked, defensively, "I was giving you a compliment!" he told her.

"Oh, well in that case, I suppose thank you is in order," Hermione replied, patting his head gently where she'd just hit him. She rearranged his hair so that it was no longer so messy before realizing what she was doing, and going back to the massage. Ron's skin was surprisingly warm beneath her fingers, and she realized that she'd never been this close to him for such a long period of time, and on purpose, no less.

"Hermione?" Ron asked, his voice suddenly thoughtful.

"Yes Ron?" Hermione replied, expectantly, hopeful. She'd had the feeling that he wanted to tell her something since hat morning's taxicab ride.

"Well, I, err," he changed tactics: "Lower, please," he said, and Hermione obliged, working on the muscles of his mid-back. If truth be told, she had never given a massage before, only read about them in books, but she was going primarily on instinct, kneading muscles she imagined she'd want massaged if the roles were reversed…although she tried not to think too hard about having Ron's hand on her back in that way. Hermione's fingers eventually came to rest on either side of Ron's spinal cord, and as she put pressure on the spot, Ron arched his back, letting-out a small moan of contentment. Hermione drew her hands back as if she'd been scalded.

"Why'd you stop?" Ron asked, turning around. His brow was furrowed in a frown, and Hermione thought he'd never looked sexier.

"I, well, err, does your neck still hurt?" Hermione muttered, hoping to God that she wasn't blushing and trying like hell to stop staring at him like a ravenous wolf eyeing a piece of fresh meat.

"Well no, but…" Ron began, but stopped as he tried to come up with his next words. "…But, it was just beginning to get interesting. Another few minutes and you would have come up with some lame excuse to get my shirt off," he finished with an evil grin.

"Now, really!" humphed Hermione, "of all the macho, egotistical things," she started, but was cut-off as the train gave another lurch and she was involuntarily thrown forwards.

"Fancy meeting you here," Ron grinned again, and Hermione realized she was splayed on top of him. She tried to raise herself as gallantly as she could but a strand of her hair had somehow gotten twisted around one of the buttons of the Muggle shirt he was wearing.

"I'm stuck," she told him.

"Seems that way, doesn't it?" Ron replied, making no move to help.

"Could you, er, undo me, please?" she asked, and immediately cringed at the realization that what she had just said could easily be construed in a completely different manner.

"Really, Hermione, I'm not that kind of guy," Ron replied in a fake tone, obviously enjoying every moment of this rather unfortunate situation. Hermione smacked him—hard—in the arm. "Ouch! That's going to leave a bruise! —Just you wait until I tell Harry that you beat me." Hermione meant to hit him again, but he grabbed her wrist, laughing. "Relax, I'll have you free in a minute." And, true to his word, she was able to lift herself completely a few seconds later.

"What were you really going to say earlier when I was massa—when I was rubbing your neck?" Hermione asked him, curiosity getting the better of her as she lifted herself from him and sat next to him on the seat. His statement from a few minutes before, the one about her trying to get his shirt off, was lingering in her mind. When exactly had Ron become so daring around girls? It seemed so unlike him; in fact, last year only he would have become incredibly flustered and would have turned beet red at even the mention of what they had been doing seconds before—regardless of how innocent the circumstances had been.

"I don't remember," Ron lied.

"You're a lousy liar." Hermione called his bluff easily. She knew him far too well.

"Don't you ever get tired of this?" Ron asked, finally, giving up trying to fib his way out.

"Tired of what?" Hermione asked him, slightly confused.

"Of, you know, us, and all this skirting about for no reason."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione said, although it was now she who was lying as she knew exactly where this was going, and had to admit that she'd been wondering the same thing over the past few months.

"Yes you do, Hermione; you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Hermione decided playing dumb was the best course of action: "On the contrary, I—"

"Oh, bollocks, Hermione," he interrupted her, "if I were to kiss you right now, what would you do?"

Hermione's eyes bulged slightly at Ron's suggestion and she stood, trying to put as much distance as she could between the two of them. Her mouth opened and closed rhythmically like that of a fish as her mind groped about for the perfect words. They did not come, however, and all she could do was stare at Ron. Ron walked up to Hermione and stood directly in front of her, his tall frame dwarfing her. For one terrifying—and exhilarating—moment, she thought he was going to go through with it. He had bent down so that their faces were mere inches apart, and she stood terrified, her gaze fixed on his lips. He did not kiss her, however; he did not even try. Instead, he began to laugh and stopped only when she shot him a dirty look.

"It's okay, Hermione; we'll play it your way…but only for now."

The train lurched yet again, this time more violently than before, and Ron bent to look out the window.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" he asked no one in particular. He squinted, trying to see through the inky darkness beyond the glass, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. "You stay here, I'm going to go up front and see if I can't see what's happening," he said and walked towards the compartment door. Before his hand reached the handle, another tremor hit and the lights flickered a few times before the compartment went completely dark. The lights did not come back on, and with another great lurch, Ron and Hermione were thrown off their feet as the entire train car rolled onto its side and tossed them about like a bad roller coaster. Hermione heard Ron groan and a dull thud before she was propelled into her trunk, hitting her head—the world went black.

~*~

Hermione was aware of only one thing as she woke up, and that was of the sharp pain in her skull. She opened her eyes slightly and quickly shut them again at the site of two Rons swimming above her.

"You never told me you had a twin," she said groggily—her feeble attempt at a joke. Several snowflakes fell onto her face, and she realized that she was lying in the snow.

"Thank God you're awake," Ron said. He was holding tightly onto her hand, and if it weren't for her pounding headache, she would have been happy of that fact. Hermione opened her eyes, this time a little wider. The two floating Rons converged into one. He had a cut above his eyebrow, and a nasty looking bruise quickly forming on his jaw.

"What happened?" Hermione asked. Her vision was coming and going; she probably had a concussion.

"Our care derailed," Ron explained, "it was the only one from what I can tell. The train must've kept going…it was almost empty, probably no one even noticed."

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked him, ignoring her protesting brain as she carefully sat-up. She didn't seem to have anything broken as far as she could tell, but her bottom was already soaked through from being in the snow.

"I'm fine, a few scratches and a banged-up knee, but I'm more worried about you. Your head is still bleeding pretty badly and the snow is coming down worst than ever. We need to find somewhere to spend the night before we freeze to death." Ron took Hermione's hand and helped her to her feet. She leaned into him as the world did a flip-flop.

"Are you okay?" Ron asked her, worry lining his voice.

"Yes, just a little dizzy; give me a minute," she said, although she didn't honestly think a minute would be enough. Hermione gingerly touched her head, assessing the damage. The spot above her temple where she'd hit the trunk was raw and jagged, and she winced at how tender it felt. When Hermione pulled her hand away it was covered in blood. She tried to ignore that fact as she looked towards the barely visible horizon, trying to make out somewhere, anywhere, where they could take shelter. "Any idea where we could go?" she asked Ron, looking up at him expectantly. His eyes were also focused on the horizon; he was frowning.

"I think there's a cabin a little further up; I've noticed it every year when we pass it. I don't think anybody lives there, but right now we just need to stay warm until someone realizes what happens and comes looking for us."

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked doubtfully, thinking that maybe it would be safer for them to stay by the wreckage of the train car, but when she spotted the lump of twisted metal, she realized that it would afford them little if any protection…it was a wonder they'd survived with so little damage to themselves. "How can you be sure that the cabin you remember is around here? The landscape all looks the same…we could have passed it by now, we might not even be near it, it might not even be still—" she was nearing hysterics, and Ron put a finger to her mouth to quiet her.

"Ssh," he said, in a soft voice, "listen, Hermione, everything will be okay. Just concentrate on getting yourself warmed-up, all right? Even if we don't find the cabin there's bound to be a house or a road around here, but we're not going to find it standing here worrying about not finding it," he told her in a tone much more patient and reassuring than Hermione knew he possessed.

"Okay," she told him, shivering slightly at the cold beginning to seep through the cloak she was wearing—a clock she realized she had not been wearing when the train had crashed. Looking down at its inordinately long sleeves, she came to the realization that it was Ron's cloak; he must have put it on her while she was unconscious…how long had she been out for?

"Ron, your cloak—" she began, making a motion to give it back.

"No, you keep it; I've got a jumper in my bag if I need one," he told her as he gathered his things and began leading the way.

"Wait, what about my trunk?" Hermione asked, immediately feeling stupid. Here they were struggling to stay alive and she was thinking about her books. She looked around her, and realized that her trunk had been completely destroyed…half of it lay buried in the snow, while its contents had been thrown out, most either irretrievable or already buried from the flurry still falling upon them. She expected Ron to point out her shallow request to her, but he seemed to think her point somewhat valid as he walked towards a brown lump barely visible in the snow…it was her copy of Hogwarts: A History, possibly the heaviest volume she owned, and the only one that had survived the crash. He put it in his bag with the rest of his things.

"Come on," he told her, holding-out his hand. She took it without question…the ground was terribly uneven and even if she hadn't suffered a head wound she would have had trouble walking on it…and the silently began the long trek up the path.

~*~

They had been walking for what seemed like hours. Hermione's feet felt as if they were about to fall off and the pain in her head had graduated from a dull thud to a sharp stabbing sensation every time she took a step, or did as little as blink. She thought she was at the end of her rope, about to keel over from exhaustion when she felt Ron squeeze her hand and give her arm a little tug.

"Look," he whispered, and Hermione obliged him, not understanding at first what it was he wanted her to see, then she noticed just a hint of a shadow in the horizon. Upon further inspection she noticed that the shadow was suspiciously house-shaped. "Come on," Ron said, pulling her along as they made their way to the house, their spirits slightly revived. The pain in Hermione's head no longer seemed so bad, and the cold in her feet and fingers no longer seemed as biting. It took them almost a half-hour before they reached the cabin, but Hermione didn't care. She would be able to rest, soon.

~*~

Head wounds always bled a lot—at least that was Hermione's understanding from a mediwitch textbook she had once read. Still, she had never experienced it first hand, and from the feel of it she had a regular vein pumping directly below her wound. Ron seemed worried about it. As soon as they'd reached the caving—was completely deserted, and completely empty save for a broken table and a mouldy sofa—he'd insisted she sit down and had begun fussing over her…she supposed he did have reason to worry. She was cold, and faint, and had been shivering uncontrollably for the last several minutes. Still, she put-on a brave face and shooed-him away, insisting that she was all right and that all she needed was a fire to warm up. There was a large stone fireplace in the one-room cabin; all Ron had to do was take-out his wand, and…Hermione cringed. Ron didn't have his wand with him. He had put it in her trunk because his bag had been nearly full. Her own wand was also in there—they were without magic. Ron seemed to read her mind.

"Don't worry, Herm, it's under control. Muggles don't have magic, and they can start fires just fine." Hermione looked skeptical, but Ron reached into his bag and took out several objects including her copy of Hogwarts: A History, and a small, square, metal object which Hermione recognized as being a Muggle lighter.

"Where'd you get that?" she asked him, at which he grinned.

"Dad gave it to me for my birthday. It's a fire machine; Muggles use them to light their fags with, but you can light a lot more things with them like candles, and, in our case, fireplaces." He had also taken his maroon jumper from the bag and handed it to her. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she thought her jaw would shatter at any second. "Go on, put it on," he urged, "the wind might not get to us in here, but this cabin is still like an ice box."

Hermione took the sweater reluctantly and put it on. It was cold as it had been in Ron's bag, but it would soon warm her up. She tentatively put her nose to the collar and inhaled. Ron was busy taking apart the wooden table and putting the pieces in the fireplace and wasn't paying attention to her. His jumper smelled spicy, like cinnamon and cloves—she loved the smell of his cologne. She had bought him the bottle for Christmas last year, at the time worrying that it was too personal a gift, the kind of thing she would buy her boyfriend. Ron had not mentioned anything about it, however, and he'd worn the cologne every day since.

She looked at him, now, bent over the opening of the fireplace, stacking pieces of wood into it. She thought of Ron's words to her when she had thought he had been about to kiss her on the train: "We'll play it your way…but only for now." They had been a promise of sorts, a statement of things to come, and Hermione realized how much she had wanted him to kiss her in the train. It would not have been the first time they would have kissed, but it would have been the first time they acknowledge the fact that they both wanted it to happen and were ready to face the repercussions.

**FLASHBACK**

"You are the most insufferable, incorrigible, most vile excuse for a friend I have ever met. How can you even stand there and pretend to try and support me when all you can do is criticize my decisions," Hermione yelled at Ron in the empty common room.

"Well maybe I'd be more supportive if your 'decisions' as you call them didn't involve making googley eyes at a perfect stranger who's practically twice your age!" Ron yelled back. It seemed as if they'd run circles around this subject for weeks.

"There you go again, making judgements about someone you don't even know. Like it or not, Ronald Weasley, Viktor Kr—" Hermione was abruptly cut-off as Ron kissed her. She stood shocked for a minute before kissing him back. Seconds later they broke apart, Hermione's eyes wide as saucers and Ron's ears so red they practically glowed.

"Right, err," Ron spoke, and cleared his throat, "well, shall we go down to dinner, then?" he asked, changing the subject and putting an end to the fight. Hermione, unable to speak for the simple reason that she was mortified, and curiously exhilarated, merely nodded and followed him silently out of the portrait hole. She wouldn't have been able to say anything right then, anyway, even if her life had depended on it.

**END FLASHBACK**

They had not done so much as mention the events in passing, let alone talk about what had happened between them since that day.

"What are you thinking?" Ron asked, pulling Hermione abruptly out of her reveries.

"Nothing," Hermione answered, her fingers involuntarily rubbing her mouth as if the feel of Ron's lips still lingered there.

"Well, in that case can you pass me that book?" he asked her, referring to the copy of Hogwarts: A History that he had pulled out of his bag minutes before. Hermione took the book and passed it to him, wondering what he was going to do with it…surely reading could wait until later. She realized too late, what his purpose with the book had been, and before she could protest (it was, after all, her favorite textbook,) he had ripped-out several pages, and stuffed them under the wood in the fireplace.

"I know the teachers always tell us our textbooks are our most useful tools, but I doubt they had this particular use in mind when they fed us that bollocks," he grinned, before lighting the paper on fire. Soon, the flames had made their way to the dry wood of the table, and the room was filled with dancing light and warmth that immediately made Hermione drowsy. Had she had more energy, she would, at the very least, yelled at Ron for defacing school property—her school property, no less, but at the moment, as her eyes slowly drifted closed, all she could think about was sleep.