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If asked to pinpoint when it all started, he would say the end of Third Year. Of course he could go back to the beginning, to their meeting in the Hogwarts Express, when he could tell that Hermione had read about the Boy Who Lived, worked out that he would be in their year, and accompanied Neville to seek him out. Or to that first Halloween, when Harry realized that Hermione hadn’t heard about the troll and insisted they rescue her. In Second Year, Ron observed the gentleness with which Harry had reached for Hermione’s clenched fist to disentangle the sheaf of paper; in return, her unbridled enthusiasm as she bounded toward him, screaming, “You solved it!”
But they had been children then, and it was apparent that Harry and Hermione had grown up without siblings or even any friends from their Muggle schools. So Ron hadn’t been bothered by their dynamic.
When he was recovering in the hospital wing, however, and Hermione and Harry regaled him with their tale of traveling through time to rescue Sirius, it felt like he had broken more than just his leg. It wasn’t that he had missed out on an adventure that sounded so cool — after all, he and Harry had flown his dad’s car across the country and escaped from murderous giant spiders and snuck into the Slytherin common room in disguise and found the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets without Hermione. Those kinds of exploits always sounded more exciting if you hadn’t been there.
No, what unsettled him was the look of pure admiration Hermione gave Harry as she described how he cast a Patronus so powerful that it drove away dozens of Dementors. As always, Harry flushed and deflected the praise, commending her commitment to freeing Buckbeak without giving themselves away. “You weren’t very good at flying Buckbeak though,” he smirked, remarking how he could barely breathe as she clung to him. Ron pretended to laugh and asked more questions to change the subject, desperate to ignore the jealousy coursing through him.
There were too many moments to single out after that — he recalled his disgust with Rita Skeeter’s article about them dating, and the sharp stab of envy when Hermione kissed Harry on the cheek at King’s Cross. He’d endured her endless fretting about Harry during the summers they spent at the Burrow and Grimmauld Place, witnessed the way she threw herself at him with suffocating hugs every time they reunited. She had never, not once, displayed that kind of affection for him.
Ron tried to reason that Hermione and he shared more romantic tension; that she could be so unabashed in her gestures toward Harry because she didn’t view him as anything more than a friend — not to mention a friend who was at perpetual risk of injury, abuse and death.
Anyhow, he could catalogue all the times Hermione had reached for him, the looks she had thrown his way, the private conversations and moments they shared in Harry’s absence. But the truth was that these interactions had almost always revolved around Harry, whether he was with them or not. Hermione never stopped worrying about him, wondering how he was doing and wishing he was well. Even when Harry had been an insufferable prat in Fifth Year or fought with Hermione about the Prince’s book in Sixth, she did things like reassure him that he wasn’t a bad kisser or say he had never been more “fanciable” with such conviction that of course Ron had reason to believe she was attracted to him.
He couldn’t say the same for Harry. He had always been too clueless about girls, preoccupied with more important things. Harry never seemed to view Hermione’s behavior as anything more than platonic, and he had been so obvious when he admired Cho from afar and agonized over Ginny that Ron felt sure he didn’t harbor any feelings for Hermione.
Something shifted during their time in the tent, and he couldn’t blame it on the Horcrux. By then, Harry and Hermione had placed all their trust into each other, could read each other’s minds and finish each other’s thoughts. Even at their lowest points, it was obvious that they needed each other, that both of them were hoping the other would figure out what to do, as they had done so many times before — Hermione impressed by Harry’s intuition and bravery against all odds, and Harry in awe of her intelligence and willingness to break rules and take huge risks for the sake of what was right. Ron could not keep up, had nothing he could offer.
Once he returned, rescuing Harry from the frozen pond and destroying the locket, he had been determined to put in more effort. Both Harry and Hermione were exhausted, and his newfound vigor carried him through the final battle. For that, Hermione had kissed him.
And then Fred died.
The months following had been a blur — the heavy cloud of grief that hung over the Burrow, the emotional toll of retrieving Hermione’s parents from Australia, the hasty decision to enroll in the Auror training program with Harry and Neville, even though it meant a year away from Hermione. He thought some distance might bring them closer together — didn’t people always say that absence makes the heart grow fonder?
Yet he found himself relieved that they weren’t bickering and apologizing and snogging and repeating the cycle over and over. It was excruciating, and neither of them would have been able to handle it on top of the intensity of training and Hermione’s obsessiveness over her NEWTs. (He’d reminded her that she could already get any job she’d ever wanted, even if she earned ‘Troll’ marks on all her exams, but that was somehow beside the point.)
He noticed, though, that Harry and Hermione’s friendship grew stronger during their time apart. She filled entire scrolls of parchment with her letters to Harry, and his responses matched her urgency, if not their length. Ron never asked Harry about their contents, but he pestered her — what could she possibly say to Harry that she couldn’t share with him? Of course, that led to more fighting, and in the end he stopped asking. It was what he experienced in the tent all over again — Harry and Hermione understood each other on a deep, fundamental level that he could never access. Perhaps it was because they had been raised in the Muggle world, feeling alone without friends or siblings, and that kinship led them to confide things they wouldn’t admit to anyone else. And then, of course, it was because he had left them.
Rejoining them on the Horcrux hunt was the first time he suspected that Harry might consider her as more than a friend after all. He never believed the “sister” comment — what did an only child know about sibling dynamics? He saw the instinctive way Harry grabbed her during the final battle and knew Hermione would have gone to the very end with him. She said as much when they acknowledged that Harry had gone off into the forest alone, and when You-Know-Who announced Harry Potter’s death, the life had drained from her as well.
After the war, Hermione and Harry gave the Weasleys space to grieve the loss of Fred as a family, and Ron caught glimpses of the way his friends behaved without him. One time he saw them sitting in the garden behind the Burrow, Harry staring off into the distance. Hermione stood up to leave, but as she did, she ruffled her fingers through his messy hair. She had never done that to Ron, but Harry didn’t appear caught off-guard. Instead he managed a smile, and they exchanged a few words that Ron couldn’t make out, the moment fraught with meaning. He never mentioned it to either of them.
When the time came for Hermione, Ginny and Luna to board the Hogwarts Express for their final year, Ron felt another twinge when he saw the two of them say goodbye. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him — Harry had embraced Luna and even given Ginny a kiss, and he’d hugged Hermione plenty of times. But that was it, Ron realized — he hadn’t, not really. Hermione had always been the one to run and subject him to suffocating squeezes, while he received them with the awkwardness of someone who hadn’t experienced much physical contact.
This time, Harry had wrapped his arms around her and murmured something into her bushy head while she sniffled into his shoulder. Sure, she had held onto Ron much longer and snogged him before boarding the train — but there was something about the protective manner in which Harry had pulled her close and her ease resting against him — like they had done it before and knew the way their bodies fit. Ron acknowledged that they had all hidden together underneath the Invisibility Cloak and held hands while Apparating, but it was strange to see how comfortable they had grown in one another’s personal space.
Then there was the evidence nobody could deny or ignore — except for the fact that they hadn’t really chosen to do it. The first was at Christmas break, when they wandered around Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and got stuck under a sprig of Mischievous Mistletoe that George had placed above the Smart-mouthed School Planners and Flashy Flashcards (timetables that taunted the owners for procrastinating and index cards that emitted small fireworks to celebrate correct answers).
“No one ever goes into that section.” He raised his hands in defense, as Ginny and Ron glowered. “I thought it would be funny to make two bookworms share their first kiss—”
“Hilarious.” Hermione rolled her eyes.
“I’ve already had my awkward first kiss underneath mistletoe,” Harry sighed. “Can’t you undo the spell?”
George shook his head. “This was Fred’s brainchild — don’t ask me how he perfected it. There’s only one way out, mate.”
Harry shot a rueful look at Ron and Ginny, but Hermione closed the gap, giving him a quick peck on the lips. As she attempted to pull away, her legs remained frozen in place, and she toppled into his arms.
“You’ve got to do better than that,” George snickered, as the mistletoe heckled them.
Harry conveyed a silent apology before tilting his head and kissing Hermione full on. As she mirrored the motion and parted her lips, they succeeded in breaking the jinx and split apart, faces crimson.
The only people to blame were George and Fred, so the couples never mentioned the incident. Ron knew, however, that none of them would forget it.
Which is why he wasn’t sure how any of them could have ever agreed to the shenanigans they pulled after graduation, except that copious amounts of Firewhisky were to blame.
‘Imp or Veritas’ — as in Imperius or Veritaserum — was a harmless game for young wizards and witches, not for traumatized war veterans who had been subjected to the reality of Unforgivable Curses. None of them had ever experienced a “normal” childhood, and this seemed like their last chance to pretend. They egged each other on, downing shot after shot and displaying their foolhardy Gryffindor traits. Luna, of course, had always been a free spirit. Nevertheless, the Trio raised their eyebrows when she revealed that she and Neville had hooked up one night when they were hiding from the Carrows in the Room of Requirement.
It was less startling when Neville confessed that he had fancied Hermione for years before she rejected his invitation to the Yule Ball. Ginny admitted that she had dated Dean with the sole purpose of making Harry jealous. Hermione confirmed that she had, in fact, snogged Viktor Krum on multiple occasions. Harry reiterated that nothing happened between Hermione and him when they were alone in the tent. And Ron detailed how far he had gone with Lavender, to Hermione’s irritation.
The ‘Imps’ started out with low stakes — take another swig of Firewhisky, go over and flirt with someone they’d never spoken to — but soon they were shedding clothing, streaking through the corridors, skinny dipping in the prefects’ bathroom. And then Luna made everyone write down their names on one piece of parchment, and on another, a place they had always fantasized about but had never snogged someone at Hogwarts.
Neville wrote the greenhouses. Luna’s was the Astronomy Tower. Ginny chose the prefects’ bath. Ron picked the Quidditch pitch. Hermione, as predicted, chose the library. To everyone’s surprise, so did Harry.
“I got bored all the times Hermione made us study, and sometimes my mind wandered.” Five pairs of eyes burned into him. “I was thinking about you,” he clarified, staring at Ginny.
But the next part of Luna’s game was finding out who they had been paired with.
Neville and Ginny, Luna and Ron, Ginny and Luna, Harry and Hermione, Hermione and Harry, Ron and Neville.
“I’m not snogging Neville!” Ron burst out.
“Harry and Hermione both got each other,” Luna noted with enthusiasm. “So that means they get the Dementor’s Kiss.”
“The what?” Harry spluttered.
“It means you have to go to ‘Azkaban’,” Ginny explained. “We’ll lock you in the library and you can’t leave until seven minutes have passed.”
Hermione’s alarm matched his. “We’re supposed to snog for seven minutes?”
“You can do more than that,” Luna winked.
“It’s just a game, you don’t have to—” Ron began, but Neville cut in.
“It wasn’t just a game when you made me sneak into the Hufflepuff common room and drop my trousers.”
“I’m sorry, did you want to snog me?”
“Maybe he does.”
He ignored Luna’s comment, turning toward his sister. “Are you okay with this?”
“Calm down, it’s all in good fun.”
“You two seem suspiciously silent,” Ron rounded on his best friends.
“We can trade if you want.” Hermione held out her slip of parchment. “Would you rather kiss Harry?”
“I’m not kissing anyone!”
“Not even me?” Luna smiled, and his ears reddened.
“We don’t have to—” Harry protested, but Ginny stopped him.
“Don’t let Ron ruin this. He didn’t mind playing when he was harassing you two about your time in the tent. Conveniently ignoring the fact that he was the one who left you together in the first place. Why don’t you give him something to really be jealous about?”
Hermione and Harry flushed, unable to look in each other’s direction.
“Don’t make me take out the mistletoe,” Ginny chuckled. “Come on, it’s not a big deal.”
“You’re really fine with this?” Harry asked her in disbelief.
“You don’t mind me kissing Neville? Or Luna?”
He swallowed, wringing his hands. “No, I know that it doesn’t mean anything—”
“Exactly.” She grinned. “We’ve all been so serious the whole time with school and the war. Have some fun for once. I know Hermione learned a thing or two from Viktor...”
Hermione swatted at her, watching Ron’s reaction. “You know you don’t have to kiss Neville.”
“Let’s make this easier,” Luna decided. “Neville and Ginny will go to the greenhouses. Ronald and I will go to the Astronomy Tower and the Quidditch pitch. Harry and Hermione will stay in the library until we come get them. And since we’re already in the prefects’ bath...” She snaked her arms around Ginny, engaging her in a passionate kiss. The group watched in stunned silence. Before anyone could say anything, however, Luna grabbed Ron’s hand and dragged him into the hallway, while he caught a glimpse of his girlfriend and best mate glancing at one another.
They agreed to never speak about that night, except in passing the next day as they nursed their hangovers and promised they would never drink that much again. Harry and Hermione and Ginny behaved as though nothing had changed, even though he could never look at Luna quite the same way again. They had acted embarrassed under the mistletoe, but of course they hadn’t been disgusted the way siblings would be. And though Ron kept a closer eye whenever they were together, they maintained their distance, never shared any casual touches or secret glances.
On the other hand, perhaps they were so composed because they had resolved the sexual tension between them. By now, Ron no longer wondered what might have been between him and Luna. At the Astronomy Tower, she kissed him until they were breathless and splayed across the stone tiles, staring at the night sky as their chests heaved. Once they recovered somewhat, they Summoned a broom to fly over to the Quidditch pitch, and she gripped everything but the broom handle until Ron could barely focus; they tumbled onto the grass, and he leaned against one of the goalposts as she took him into her mouth. Then he flipped her around and nipped the Snitch, scored the Quaffle, and even tried flacking, which Hermione never would have let him do.
But maybe she had given Harry access to the Restricted Section. He pictured her sitting in her favorite spot in the library, attempting to read a book without giving anything away while Harry disappeared beneath the table and between her folds. Or maybe they snuck into the back corner with all the boring books about Gringotts finance and wizarding law, Harry making wisecracks about penal codes and seeing the Head Girl in action until she shushed him, dropping to her knees. Or maybe he bent her over a desk, quizzing her with facts from her NEWTs and rewarding her inch by inch, harder and faster until she struggled to speak in coherent sentences.
“Final question: who am I?”
“Harry James Potter, born in Godric’s Hollow on July 31—"
“Who am I?” he’d repeat, sliding out until his tip teased her dripping entrance.
“The Boy Who Lived,” she’d whine, anything to keep him pushing deeper into her. “The Chosen One. Public Enemy Number One. Master of the Deathly Hallows. The Hero who Defeated Vol–"
“What’s my name?” he’d growl, and her answer would come out in a breathy moan as he thrust into her.
“Harry — oh, Harry—”
“Good girl,” he’d praise her, speeding up his movements as she cried his name. “You feel so good...so tight—”
“Harry! Oh, f—” she’d bite her lip to stifle a curse as he slammed into her.
“Do you like that? You like it when I fuck you, Hermione?” He’d sound more confident than Ron ever could.
“Yes — please, Harry—”
“Please what?” He’d reach around, his fingers grazing her lips.
“Please, fuck me,” she’d beg. “I’m so close—”
“Come for me,” he’d rasp, plunging into her.
“HARRY!” she would scream as he found the Golden Snitch, both of them gripping the edge of the table before they fell onto it, shuddering with ecstasy.
Or maybe she supported herself against the bookshelves while he propped her up, wrapped her legs around him and panted into his ear.
“Be honest — did you ever fantasize about me while we were studying in the library?”
“Of course,” he’d grunt, burying his face in her curls. “How could I not, seeing you sucking on your quill...”
“And in the tent?”
“I thought of a few ways we could have stayed warm.”
“Show me.”
“Well, we’d be in the bunk bed.” He’d guide her to the floor and lay on his back. “And I’d give you some flying lessons.”
“I know how to ride a broom,” she’d counter, straddling him and splaying her fingers against his chest.
“Oh yeah? Prove it.”
They’d groan in pleasure as she ground her hips against his, and he’d cast aside her top and bra as she bounced up and down on his length. Maybe he’d swirl his tongue around her nipples, place his hands on her bum and encourage her rhythm.
“So did you ever fantasize about me?”
“Every witch has fantasized about you,” she’d reply.
“Only because I’m famous—” he’d mutter, and she’d silence him with a kiss.
“That’s not the only reason.”
“So what’s your reason?”
“Well,” she’d whisper, brushing her lips across his lightning-shaped scar. “I knew about your Elder Wand.”
They’d dissolve into a fit of giggles as he rolled her around. “Haven’t you ever heard that it’s not the wand, it’s how you use it?”
“Yes, but that’s not really true — except in your case.” Her brown eyes would twinkle. “Then again, you have a very nice wand.”
“Don’t break it again,” he’d warn, and they’d smother their laughter as he showed off his wand work, swishing and flicking until they saw sparks, collapsing atop the pile of books that had scattered around them in their frenzy.
“We’d better clean up before they get us,” Hermione would say, smoothing down her skirt. “It’s been well past seven minutes.”
When Ron and Luna arrived outside the library, clothes disheveled and hair sticking up every which way, Ginny and Neville couldn’t contain their amusement.
Harry and Hermione, on the other hand, didn’t have a hair out of place.
“So what happened in there?” Ginny questioned, but Luna shook her head.
“The game’s over now. Whatever happened stays between us.”
The group made their way back to the dormitories, unafraid of the professors or Peeves or anyone who might find them roaming the corridors as the sun rose on their final day at Hogwarts.
Hermione had taken his hand, but Ron felt like he was fourteen all over again — like his best friends had gone on an exhilarating adventure together, and he would always be wondering what he had missed.