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Hermione Granger was in her sixth year at Hogwarts and, by far, it was the worst one yet. And that was saying something, coming from her. As she got dressed to go to the library, she stared at the inside of her trunk. Conflicting feelings hit her all at once, like an axe striking wood: the beautiful memories attached to each object, how he had given them to her. Everything had been intimate, personal.
Then came the anger. Anger at what he was doing to her right now.
And finally the sadness, because she knew that, even if she wanted to, she couldn’t get rid of them: they were far too special to her.
She slammed the trunk shut, as if the noise could scare the memories away, and wiped her eyes roughly. She wasn’t going to cry again. Not over him.
On her way to the library, the cold of the corridors brought back thoughts she hadn’t asked for.
Third year had been awful. The Time-Turner, Buckbeak, Sirius Black… and Ronald. Always Ronald. Realizing you were in love with your best friend was a slow torture, especially when that best friend seemed to enjoy arguing with you about absolutely everything.
One of the few good things had been punching Malfoy. Every time she remembered it, Hermione couldn’t help but laugh… except today, unfortunately.
Fourth year hadn’t been any better. Harry and Ronald fighting, the Tournament, the Yule Ball. Ronald with Padma Patil, and her pretending she didn’t care while feeling physically sick.
And now, in sixth year, it was happening again… but this time it was a thousand times worse.
While he walked through the corridors kissing Lavender, she spent hours crying in the library or locked in her dormitory, trying to focus on books that felt heavier than ever. She was sitting between dusty shelves full of parchment, pretending to study so she could beat Harry and his stupid Half-Blood Prince book in Advanced Potions.
But she couldn’t concentrate. She read the same page for nearly an hour. She knew every line by heart, but she forced herself to keep going. Giving up was not an option. It never had been.
She thought about all the moments they had shared: the knowing glances at the Burrow; the smiles she gave only to him; the worn Chudley Cannons jumper Ronald had given her while they were sorting through clothes that no longer fit him; her resting her head on his shoulder under the tree in the garden; him eating Chocolate Frogs and sharing some with her while she read.
Even Mrs. Weasley had thought they liked each other.
Hermione remembered the conversation she’d had with her before fifth year, when Harry hadn’t arrived yet and they were at Grimmauld Place. Ronald and she were sitting in the living room, playing a game of wizard’s chess that Ronald would obviously win as soon as he got bored of making her suffer.
“Ronnie, dear, could you help Ginny feed Buckbeak?” Mrs. Weasley asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“Oh, Mum, I’m busy beating Hermione senseless,” Ronald replied with an amused grin. “Besides, I fed him yesterday.”
“Don’t talk back, Ronald, or you’ll be helping your sister for the rest of the holidays,” Mrs. Weasley warned.
Hermione couldn’t help laughing. When he saw her, he frowned, pretending to be angry. She knew him too well, so she did the smartest thing she could think of: she stuck out her tongue. Ronald burst out laughing, and Hermione blushed, feeling silly, because he was the only one she ever shared moments like that with.
“Hermione, dear, could you help me in the kitchen? I need to sort out what’s usable and what needs to be thrown away,” Mrs. Weasley asked.
“Of course, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione replied, as Ronald left the room.
After a while, Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat.
“Hermione, dear… you like Ron, don’t you?” she asked with a warm smile.
“What?… No… no, of course not, Mrs. Weasley. Ron and I are… best friends, but… no,” Hermione stammered. If her hair had been the same color as her face, anyone would have said she was a Weasley.
“You don’t have to lie, dear. I can see it in your eyes,” she replied. “It makes me very happy. I can see how happy you make Ron, and I hope he makes you happy too. Though, from what Ginny told me about last year’s Yule Ball, I suppose he’s making it rather difficult,” she added with a soft laugh.
“I thought I hid it well,” Hermione said, trying not to sound nervous.
“You do, but I’m the mother of seven and I had several brothers. I’d recognize that sparkle anywhere,” Mrs. Weasley said, hugging her. “And don’t worry… he has that same sparkle when he looks at you,” she whispered.
In those memories, everything seemed perfect.
Hermione had planned for Professor Slughorn’s Christmas party to be the perfect moment for them to confess their love, naively believing that he felt the same way.
But now everything was ruined.
She felt like a silly little girl, with silly dreams, for thinking her best friend could feel something more for her. She couldn’t even look at him without her heart lurching and tears threatening to spill.
She slammed the book shut. She wasn’t going to study. She couldn’t.
She pulled out a blank parchment and began writing possible jobs at the Ministry, anything that didn’t involve thinking about Ronald Weasley.
As she wrote, someone sat down across from her.
She didn’t need to look up to know who it was: that familiar scent, sweet and slightly sharp, the same one she smelled in Amortentia.
Damn you, Ronald Weasley.
“What do you want, Ro-Ro?” Hermione said, gathering all the contempt she could. “Did you lose Lav-Lav, or are you just here to make sure I’m still miserable?”
Ronald didn’t answer right away. He placed something on the table.
Food.
A sandwich. Apple juice. And a Chocolate Frog.
Hermione felt a sharp pang in her chest.
“I brought you something to eat,” Ronald said. “I know you haven’t been eating well for days.”
“Is that all?” she snapped. “Now you’re monitoring my diet? It’s not your responsibility. You made it very clear it wasn’t anymore.”
Ronald clenched his jaw.
“I don’t like seeing you like this,” he murmured. “I never did. Not even in third year, when you nearly collapsed because of that bloody Time-Turner.”
Hermione stood up so fast that the chair scraped loudly against the floor.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, her voice trembling. “Don’t pretend you care when you’ve spent months treating me like a piece of furniture.”
Ronald looked down. His fists were clenched and his jaw was tight. He knew her too well not to notice the pain in her eyes.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said. “When Ginny told me about Krum, I… I didn’t know what to do. Lavender was easy. Stupid. Noise to keep from thinking.”
He looked toward the windows, as if the outside world could save him from himself.
“It’s always been you,” he added, barely looking at her. “Even when I was too much of a coward to admit it.”
He stood up, clearly ready to run.
Hermione reacted before thinking and grabbed his sleeve.
“Ronald…” she whispered. “Since third year you’ve given me Chocolate Frogs after every fight,” she pointed to the one on the table. “You know I barely like chocolate because my parents are dentists, and you still give them to me—and this isn’t a reconciliation.”
“I know,” Ronald replied, red as his hair. “It never was.”
He swallowed.
“I always gave them to you so you’d know that, even if we were fighting, you were still someone special to me. That I always wanted to keep being your friend… and something more.”
And without saying anything else, he left.
Hermione stood there for a few seconds, her hand still suspended in the air, as if she were still holding onto a sleeve that was no longer there.
Her fingers were trembling.
Not with anger.
With relief.
Suddenly, breathing didn’t hurt as much.
She put the Chocolate Frog into her bag as a shaky smile formed on her face. She would never tell Ronald, but she never ate those “reconciliation frogs.” She kept them in her trunk and, at the end of each school year, took them with her to her room at her parents’ house.
She remembered the time her mother, cleaning her room, had asked why she had so many uneaten sweets. Hermione, red with embarrassment, said the first thing that came to mind:
“They’re collectibles in the wizarding world, Mum. Kind of like Pokémon cards for Muggles.”
Technically, it was true… but it wasn’t the reason.
Each one marked a fight overcome, an unspoken word, a clumsy apology.
And now, for the first time, she understood that for Ron they hadn’t been a meaningless gesture either.
It wasn’t a childish habit.
It was a promise neither of them had known how to name.
Hermione picked up the sandwich and left the library. The scent of old parchment and the crackling of the fireplace followed her as she walked through the corridors.
Maybe she di
dn’t have to stop feeling.
Maybe she just had to wait.
Wait for Ron Weasley to stop running from what had always been his.
The End.